Circum
by Cantare
Summary: Companion drabble series to Antiphony along with 25 Themes to accompany scaragh's art. Glimpses into Mozenrath's life at different stages.
1. Free

**Free**

_You're free._

It had been the first time he'd spoken those words in such a combination. She'd seen in his eyes that his gift wasn't meant entirely for her. They were both free.

He breathed slowly, testing the very air with the mere fact of his continued existence, his defiance against death and loss. His was the only heartbeat in the entire desert, except for the feeble patter of the eel's life against his shoulder.

_free_

The second test of the word was written in blood.

fists bones screams crack splatter stone seep red shift breathe splinter choke crush raw stare flesh burn shards shatter

repeat repeat repeat

_You're free._

_You're free._

_You're_

_Free._

His throat burned. It was the most acute sensation he felt when the screams stopped. He had the sense not to look down at his hands, at his nails.

He stood still, letting it burn, allowing the silence to slowly stifle the words that would not cease their sinister race around his mind.

The third test. He opened his mouth and spoke in an even voice for an audience of the dead.

They did not answer his words.


	2. Shame

**Shame**

For a moment he imagined the pressure against his skin was unexpected.

There were no mirrors in his quarters, but he closed his eyes nonetheless, as if afraid to see himself. But it was impossible to imagine away his shame, no matter how much pleasure he felt.

It was shallow, as shallow as the touch of his hands in the feeble attempts to remember her. To remember how it had been the first time, how he had waited for years to have her just as he had imagined, yet how it had still been unexpected as it happened. Darkness, silence, absence…the elements of this land had drawn them together without words. They had never had to speak to understand each other.

She spoke with her eyes, her hands, and then her lips only when they pressed against his skin to give him what she could not say aloud out of fear of being heard. He could not see her eyes now; he could only feel her hands (but they were his) on him, taking him into her warm embrace, her mouth closing over him…

(shame)

Though he closed his eyes, he could still see his shame, his anchor to coherent thought even as the touch of her imagined hands sent him over the edge. He raised his hands slowly, reluctantly, knowing the simple action of wiping them off would bring reality back to him with the relentless crush of shame. He felt wrong, wrong because it was all too real, and she was not part of that reality. Not anymore.


	3. Sleepwalker

**Sleepwalker**

_Can you wake up already?_

He produced another ring of magic with a lazy motion of his finger and pushed it toward his familiar. The eel grinned in stupid delight and looped through the ring multiple times, twisting and turning as if it were actually a challenge to dodge such a slow-moving spell.

The spell dissipated after several seconds like a puff of smoke, and he was left to stare at his familiar again in bored disdain. The eel seemed to expect a reaction from him, as if he might suddenly break out into applause. Brainless.

_Just in case I don't get the chance later_

Identities could be separated quite easily by physical appearances. Logically he knew that his familiar was more than just a brainless eel. He had once had a brain, one that was often slow but at least made him passable as company. He had once spoken more than idiotic babble; he had actually argued and apologized and asserted.

_I just want to say thanks_

Perhaps both identities of this eel spoke at the same level after all. He remembered all too clearly those last words before the end had come. What a choice of words. Meant to lighten his burden. But the memory of them itself was a burden.

_For everything._

He tossed another ring of magic outward from his gauntlet, faster this time, and knew the eel would likely injure itself trying to perform the same mindless tricks for his entertainment. What did he give the eel besides food and shelter? A master to rule him and remind him of his place, of who he was, who he was not, and who he was no longer.

Sometimes when he looked at those discolored, beady eyes, he imagined a trace of what had once lain in their depths. Thus he tried to cut down on his imagination as often as possible. There was no reason to think about things differently; he could only follow what his eyes saw and what his ears heard, and accept that the second identity of his frie—the eel—(at times, truth splits) was dead.

_I've never woken up._


	4. Pane

**Pane**

Then, he heard no scream.

He opened his eyes and turned toward the bars, noting the trickles of red that ran down the rusted black metal. His view of the bars blurred as he focused his gaze on what lay within.

The two guards stood silent, their shoulders slumped, bloodied arms drooping. Something red and soft fell out of a sallow palm and hit the dungeon floor with a wet smack. His eyes traced the patterns of crimson around the Mamluks' feet, how there were different shades of red even from the same body.

The man was no longer breathing; he had lost too much blood, and judging by what the Mamluk had just dropped, he was missing too many vital organs as well. Mozenrath stared at the man's blood-splattered face, how his mouth hung open in the scream of the damned. He hated that the man stared back. With a wordless order, one of the Mamluks corrected that problem for him.

The latest test of his power was different, crossing over a boundary he had not expected to cross this soon. But he was forever challenging himself to break new limits. He had to know what conscience meant. The past several minutes had shown him part of that elusive meaning.

Moral knowledge and the preference of right over wrong. That was the explanation given to him by the temple priests in his childhood. It was simple to grasp. There was some kind of innate law that he had accepted back then, that preferring right over wrong was simply…right. But then in the absence of law and authority, what were the definitions of right and wrong in the first place? And where did his preference fall?

The pain and death of another person were of no consequence to him. The man and his enterprising band of thieves had stolen onto his land, lured by the promise of great treasure. The ones that had not been taken apart by Destane's experiments were dragged in by his Mamluks, grown men reduced to whimpering like children, already broken. He had almost lost interest in them then. There was little for him to do if they had already surrendered.

So he had stood outside the bars, listening to their pleas of mercy but remaining as silent as his soldiers, closing his eyes as he issued wordless commands with his gauntlet. Hearing life draw to an end was distinctly different from seeing it, and he had seen death too many times before. He listened for the point where he could hear more death than life in the screams of the hapless men. All the while, conscience seemed to tap at the walls of his heart like small hands against thick windows in the cold of winter. He listened to the tapping cease as well.

In the end, he decided he preferred silence.


	5. Resilience

_A/N: It may help to reread the first part of "Past the Gates of Perdition" before this._

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**Resilience**

They watched and listened in hushed, over-attentive silence. It irked him as he spoke, continuing the unnecessary front of diplomacy that his master had established for his own amusement. He gave them a succinct list of rules, etiquette, and prohibitions regarding their permanent stay in the Citadel.

He assumed it was permanent. He had not yet seen anyone enter the Citadel and leave alive. From the looks on their faces, they knew this fact also. It terrified them.

The Galareone prince hid his fear well under a placid countenance and cool, observant eyes. Between each sentence, Mozenrath shifted his unwavering gaze from one young royal to the other, almost challenging them to break contact. The prince never did, merely staring back at him in an unruffled and keenly perceptive manner. This was somewhat intriguing. He recalled the light joke the boy had made the night before when he had just entered a kingdom devoid of laughter and nearly all sound. Strangely, it had not bothered Mozenrath at all or seemed out of place as it should have. The prince was adaptable, he concluded. A useful trait for survival, and an affirmation that he would not bring Destane or his apprentice too much trouble. Direct trouble, at least. Adaptability could be dangerous as well, because it was a step away from deceptiveness.

The Maristean princess, on the other hand, was already a cause for migraines that could only worsen with time. She dared not break away from his gaze, but with each blink of her long lashed lids and tremble of her dainty lips, he could tell that she would last a few months at most before she was lost to madness. With a scowl he wondered how much of her mind she had to lose in the first place. She was obviously below average intelligence and physical constitution. Was she the best her kingdom had to offer as a hostage? Or perhaps she had been offered in place of a more capable younger sibling who would be groomed for the throne in her place, all in secret of course. None of the rulers under Destane's sway dared to contravene his orders. He had demanded the heirs, the prize jewels of each kingdom. Galareon was now missing its crown prince. Mariste and Chyrilis had given away their chief bargaining chips for alliances with other kingdoms.

The door at the end of the dining hall slowly opened, and Mozenrath's gaze finally broke from his captive audience. He paused in his speech as he met the gaze of the older princess just entering the room. She lowered her eyes and approached them quietly, apologizing softly for her lateness with perfunctory grace. She took the chair beside Laila, spreading her dark skirts beneath her and folding her hands in her lap.

There was an obvious change in the air despite his unchanging tone of voice. He told them the last few essentials of their situation, aware of how the younger prince and princess were suddenly more nervous, more concerned. Not concerned for themselves, but for the dark-haired princess who sat silently without touching her food or the cup of tea that had been specially prepared for her.

He looked at her evenly and told her to eat. She caught his meaning and reached for the cup with a steady hand. The others watched her in fearful captivation as a flicker of some unnamed emotion passed through her delicate features. She raised the cup to her lips and drank, and set it back on the table empty. Mozenrath nodded slightly and turned his gaze away from her.

"Are there any questions."

He had half-expected Xerxes to say something, perhaps make a joke in an attempt to lighten the mood. But he said nothing. Mozenrath started on his plate, then, seeing no reason to linger in conversation. Though they were all about the same age, give or take a year or two, he still saw them as children.

Raniye was the exception, however. They all knew. There was nothing they could say to her, nothing any of them could do to make the situation more bearable. Speaking of it would only bring to light the evils that belonged in the dark. But allowing this burdened silence to continue might be another form of torment for her. He wondered briefly when she would break. The placid front of silence she had put up concealed the answer from his observant eyes. She might last for a week, if she were anything like the Maristean princess. At most, she would last for a few months. Princesses were simply not built to suffer.

The silence was broken by a tearful whimper from Laila. It took him a second to realize she had asked a question.

"What…what will happen to us here?" she said in a quavering voice. "Lord Destane…does he…will he…what will he do to us?"

His condescending response froze on his lips; their eyes were all drawn to the Chryilian princess, who had placed a gentle hand on Laila's arm. The two young men watched the first exchange between the princesses in intrigue.

"It's okay," she said softly, her face as still as a statue's. Her eyes met his in meaningful silence, and he thought he could see a light sheen of gratitude in them. She spoke again. "It'll be okay."

She did not break at the end of that week, nor at the end of several months. And he saw that she not only embodied the rare quality of adaptability that Xerxes had, but a deep current of resilience that he had never seen before in any captive, let alone a princess. He surprised himself when he realized that this was the first common bond between them.


	6. Lily

**Lily**

She lay still as a rose frozen in time, arms folded serenely, eyes closed, expressionless. She lay as a rose in shade, shrouded in the embrace of death. He stood silently by, watching the flicker of his shadow over her beneath the candlelight.

She was cleansed of the stain of freedom, now clad in pure white, a rose bathed in alabaster waters. She was no longer rooted in black sand, absorbing its poison each day and night.

The Rose of the Black Sand was no more. He looked down at her and saw a flower of mourning. She would not be laid to rest here, as an eternal prisoner in this desert of thorns. She would be replanted, as a lily in her native soil.

He bore her in his arms without a spell to aid him; magic could not provide him with such strength. The crystal vessel glinted with the fractals of lily petals as he lay her down in its airless space. A whisper of power from the gauntlet blurred the air around them, and beneath his feet the dark stone of the Citadel turned into sand the color of flax. He breathed in the air of her place of birth, now her place of final rest. Resting his palm on the tinted crystal, he exhaled the fulfillment of his promise. He had freed her from the Black Sand for the first—and last—time.

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_A/N: This was inspired by the Elfen Lied theme song, Lilium. The rendition I prefer is the "saint" version, sung by an all-male chorus. Tragic and beautiful, like Raniye. Check out the lyrics as well._


	7. Betrayal

**Betrayal**

He laughed coldly. Of course. It was as he had suspected for a while now. Something about him had always felt off. The Galareone prince had arrived in the Land of the Black Sand irritatingly optimistic and naïve, and a year later he was the same. That was simply not natural.

From the day after Xerxes had arrived, Mozenrath had been searching for that opening, for the slight change in color that belied the chameleon's true identity. Xerxes had been asking more questions as of late. Questions that did not seem completely innocuous, almost as if he was confirming information, feeling for hidden truths. Of course, he was a traitor.

The prince apparently still hoped that he could change Mozenrath's mind by continuing to act his part. The cheerfully ignorant, loyal friend who could do no wrong. His defenses were thin, desperate. Mozenrath cut through them easily.

"Precisely. Congratulations Xerxes, you've actually hit upon my reasons for distrusting you."

In another moment it would all be over for his 'friend.' The knife was against his throat, and his back was against empty air. There was quite a distance to fall, as they both knew from the arduous climb. But Mozenrath would not let him go yet. He had to cut through that last stubborn shield, the chameleon's pigmented skin.

"Now. Confess."

Xerxes' voice was calm against the wind as he gave an unexpected answer, followed by a drastic act of folly. Mozenrath had to admit it was the boldest move he had made yet, to injure himself in the desperate hope of convincing him that he was not a traitor.

And then suddenly the blade of the knife cut in reverse, opening an invisible wound on his consciousness. Mozenrath stared in disbelief and building anger. How dare he? How dare the prince accuse him of being anything like his master, the root of all his suffering and sacrifice? The sick, depraved man who had ruined both their lives?

The gray serenity of Xerxes' eyes seemed to ask him the same question.

Mozenrath's hand trembled on the knife, and he hardly heard the other's next words.

"I'm just being honest. It's just the way I am."

The plain gaze of the Galareone prince gave away nothing as Mozenrath scoured its cool surface for a flicker of color. And he wondered then in slight fear if he was actually wrong, if perhaps the young man's eyes gave away nothing because he had already given him the full truth. The only flicker of color was the line of crimson against the edge of the blade, pressed into his flesh by his own hand. The sight of it suddenly sickened him.

"Let go of the knife."

Neither moved for another moment, and he hated that Xerxes stared back but did not search him, did not question him at all. Slowly, steadily, the prince released the knife, but his gaze was unrelenting, casting the light of truthful accusation upon the man he had called a friend. A man who had nearly killed him.

The earthen ground flickered red as Mozenrath brought the knife away from the prince's throat. Each step of retreat spoke of his failure, and somehow it was hard to breathe as he saw the sheen of suspicion in Xerxes' eyes. Their places were reversed now, almost as if he was the one with his back to empty air, forced to give an account of his betrayal.

But the prince demanded nothing, casting off his doubt and pain but not the clear layer of disappointment now imbued in his gray eyes. He wrapped his wound and began climbing down the mountain as if he could just leave behind everything that had just happened without consequences. He took only his disappointment with him.

Mozenrath pushed past the crippling sense of failure with effort, moving to follow the prince. There was no other choice. But he would keep his distance on the way down. Not because he still held any suspicions, but because he could not face the reflection of betrayal in those gray eyes.

Failure flooded his mind in an alarming deluge as one foot slipped and he skidded down the rocky slope, unable to draw upon his inner power on this accursed mountain. One downward glance revealed his death waiting for him in a crimson blaze across bladed rocks.

A strong hand stopped his descent with a jarring grip, and he looked up with shock into eyes that did not judge his failures. The latter pulled him up firmly, helping him to regain his footing, and Mozenrath saw the reflection of his relief in his friend's disappointed, forgiving gaze.

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_ A/N: Check out the joint account Katie Ann and I created for our Aladdin collaboration fics. The first chapter of our new fic, "Entangled," is posted! Username "ofmiceandmagic," the link is on my profile. _


	8. Undead

**Undead**

He worked quickly and efficiently, blinking only when necessary, his breaths even and calm. The healing flow of his power did not break when he heard the halt of alarmed footsteps behind him.

"Oh no…"

He ignored the woman's voice behind him, focusing only on the mottled skin of the throat, the bruised flesh, the shallow breaths that should have stopped by now if not for his intervention. It was easiest to see a dying body in its separate parts. It was rare enough for him to heal the dying and not the dead in the first place.

The girl's flaxen hair lay in limpid waves around her discolored face, which looked too young for her age but apparently was not too young for death. She gazed upward with pale eyes unseeing, still hanging between realms. He had caught her in the nick of time when he had heard the crash of the chair from the hallway. Raniye was kneeling beside him now, picking up the snapped rope with trembling hands as if it were her own death sentence.

Laila's breaths began to fade, trapped in the crushed passageway of her throat, and for a second his concentration broke in disbelief. His power had never failed to heal before. But he regained his focus and increased the stream of magic from his hands, pressing his fingers gently against the girl's throat. The dark mottled flesh began to lighten, bruises diminishing to fair skin, and he felt her windpipe open up again, allowing her lungs to take in much-needed air. Slowly her face regained its light pink flush, and the sheen of awareness returned to her eyes.

She watched him silently as he withdrew his hands from her throat, and Raniye breathed a long sigh of relief, stroking the girl's hair in an attempt to comfort her, to welcome her back to life. To her surprise, Laila pushed away her hand and wrenched her gaze away from the man who had just saved her life. Mozenrath stood up and looked down at her coldly as a broken sob twisted the air between them.

"Why? Why couldn't you let me die?"

Raniye drew back in consternation as Laila lurched halfway to her feet and stumbled onto her knees, her arms wrapping around his ankles. He stepped back briskly in an attempt to shake her off, disgusted by her tears and madness.

"Why? Why couldn't you…I hate you. I hate you!" She began hitting him, and he actually winced as one of her fists struck an old wound on his leg.

Raniye was calling her name, trying to restrain her with words that were too gentle. Mozenrath solved the problem with a current of magic from one hand.

Laila fell back onto the floor, sprawled on her back, and soon curled into a fetal position, repeating that she should have died, that he should have let her die.

He stood back impassively as Raniye held her tightly in her arms, now weeping with her. The older princess' tortured countenance made clear her desperate wish for the girl to retreat from her madness and longing for death. Mozenrath entertained no such hopes. It was easiest to see a dying body in its separate parts. While it was rare to heal the dying, he realized that it wasn't too different from healing the dead.


	9. Move

**Move**

"It's about Mother," the woman whispered excitedly. A rare smile touched her solemn face. "She's pregnant again."

Xerxes was silent for a precious few seconds, seconds he would not have wasted otherwise. Mozenrath stood still near the back of the room, waiting for his reaction. His time would be up in another minute, and Mozenrath would have to end the spell.

The air shimmered as the auburn-haired princess reached a hand toward Xerxes, and the latter responded in kind. Their palms nearly touched at the intangible surface of the portal, but as always, they could not traverse the distance between them.

"I think it'll be a boy," she said softly, looking into her brother's eyes. The prince did not blink. "I just have this feeling."

Xerxes remained quiet and let her speak of their parents, who were away from the kingdom at the moment and regretted missing the chance to see their only son. Mozenrath wondered how well his sister knew him, whether she knew of what lay beneath his silence. Was it stunned joy or fearful unease?

She closed with the words she and the rest of her family always used. "We love you and miss you. Stay strong; may the mountains remember you."

"May the mountains remember you," Xerxes echoed. He let his hand fall to his side as Mozenrath stepped forward and closed the portal. The latter asked no questions, knowing the prince would eventually speak up and tell him what was on his mind, as he always did.

It surprised him when Xerxes left the room without another word, his steps rigid and wrong. Mozenrath stood alone in the dimly lit chamber for a moment, reaching a preliminary understanding of his circumstances.

Xerxes was a prince, but a permanent prisoner. He was an only son, but soon he might only be a son, no longer an heir. This would be confirmed in several months.

From the even, heavy tread of his footsteps, Mozenrath knew the prince was unlearning the proverb his people always used in parting. Mountains had history, but no memory. They only remembered those who dared to move them.


	10. Code

_A/N: I decided that Circum will include the POVs of other characters in Mozenrath's life, not just of Mozenrath himself. And I wanted to write a snow-themed drabble (almost) in time for Christmas._

* * *

**Code**

The brisk, icy air was invigorating, a shot of cold ale to his system. For a brief moment the young prince closed his eyes to the magnificent view of his kingdom below, the towers of the palace and the wide streets of the city dwarfed by the surrounding mountains. A sad smile tugged at his lips as he felt the familiar strain in his muscles from the climb, the burn in his lungs from the high altitude. The ice and snow caking his boots, the biting wind against his face, the understanding silence between him and his father – soon, they would be mere memories, encapsulated in his mind as a scene frozen in a snow globe.

He heard his father step forward, moving closer to the edge of the mountaintop, and the weight of a gloved hand came to rest on his shoulder. Xerxes opened his eyes and gazed wordlessly down the snow-streaked slope, tracing the jagged rocks and gaping crevices. His father's hand did not lift as he spoke.

"If the Code of the Mountains is written on your heart, you will not falter as you walk through valleys and deserts, no matter how deep or dark they may be." The king's voice was soft and commanding, an offer of courage.

Xerxes nodded, not turning his eyes from the kingdom beneath the clouds, engraving this moment and his father's words in his memory. He felt an invisible door closing at his back, sealing off the days of carefree childhood and leaving him with nowhere to walk but forward. Before him a black desert waited, vast and uncompromising, caving downward into a valley of shadows. He could not see its bottom.

His throat was dry as he swallowed, silently reciting the words of the Code that had sustained his kingdom since the day of its founding.

_Son of the mountains, stand strong against the wind, as a tree rooted in a mountain ridge._

_Though your branches be weighted with snow and your crown ringed with ice, remember that the mountain bears the brunt of each storm._

_Son of the mountains, stand strong._


	11. Vial

_A/N: Raniye's turn. I realize that her first interactions with Mozenrath in Antiphony are quite different from what I have written in Circum and Past the Gates of Perdition. Here's a piece that kind of fills in the blanks._

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**Vial**

There must have been a mistake. Her parents would not have allowed this to happen knowingly.

Her fingers ran nervously across the silver chain around her neck, avoiding the vial that hung from it as always. If she had the choice she would fling the charm from her throat and wipe it from her mind. But right now cries for mercy were ringing from within the cursed necklace. She would not allow one more innocent soul to be slain for her.

"Let her go," she stated. There was no hesitation or trepidation in her voice as she adamantly blocked his way.

She saw the shock in his eyes, shock that she would actually stand up to him and their master. Of course she knew the consequences for disobedience. He knew them even better than her. But at the moment she did not care.

"Let them go," she corrected quietly, and heard a hitch of breath in the woman's sobbing. The prisoners sat huddled in the prison cell behind her, silent except for the woman's voice. By the muffled sound of her weeping, Raniye knew she was hunched over her knees, rocking back and forth. The woman was dangerously thin and malnourished, her face and limbs terribly disproportionate with the round swell of her belly.

"Stand aside," he said emotionlessly. She narrowed her eyes at him and did not move. She would not move.

"Let them go," she repeated, "and I will."

"All of them?" he said, his voice growing cynical. "Have you gone mad?"

"I am not mad," she said levelly. "I think I'm the only one who's still sane." She cut him off before he could cut deeper into her heart, her voice drawing down to a whisper. "Just them two. Her baby deserves to live."

"No one deserves anything," he responded coldly. "You don't deserve to be…" He frowned at the rare stumble in his speech. "To be here. And I don't deserve to have to make this decision. But—"

"Don't make excuses," she said. "You have the power to save them. For all your talk of power, why don't you exercise it when it really matters?"

She could see his anger; sometimes the truth stung worse than suffering. But he still refused to listen.

"One day it won't be like this," he said, his voice dangerously soft. "One day—"

"Today," she asserted. "Let today be that day. Let them go, Mozenrath. If you don't, I…I'll…"

She could not think of anything to say, so she closed her mouth and merely stared back at him, challenging him to think beyond himself and her. If no one deserved anything, then they did not deserve the small comfort they found in each other's arms. She did not deserve to live while her people were enslaved and transformed into hollow shells, or simply killed if they were unfit for service.

"There's only one way I can let them go," he said, for once refusing to meet her gaze. "And there is nothing you or I can do about it."

***

That night, she turned him away for the first time. Surprised and angry, he left her with a silent glare. Their time together was precious in its rarity. Which was why it was a worthy sacrifice.

She wept alone in her bed, the vise of despair tightening around her heart. Permeated with the gloom of perdition, she no longer knew where the gates were. She had lost her way, alongside the dark young man who had promised her freedom. With dread she realized that he was walking in the wrong direction.


	12. Composition

_A/N: And now, a lighthearted Mozenrath drabble. No longer an oxymoron, apparently. Reference to a scene in Past the Gates of Perdition._

* * *

**Composition**

"So…" Xerxes nonchalantly closed the book he had been pretending to read.

Mozenrath ignored him, his hand steady on the vial as he counted the seconds until the mixture would stabilize. The liquid began to swirl from green to gray too soon, and he frowned in annoyance.

"Didn't know you had much of a taste for the fine arts," Xerxes commented, still sitting at the adjacent table, chin propped on one hand.

"I don't," he said testily, refusing to take his eyes off the glass. His frown deepened, and he tapped one finger against the bottom of the vial, where the liquid was darkest. A small current of power somewhat evened out the mixture.

"That's not what I've been hearing," the prince went on in his irritatingly cheerful manner. Out of the corner of his eye Mozenrath could see that wide innocuous grin mocking him. His hand tightened on the vial.

"Xerxes…"

"Can you write me a song too?"

The potion promptly evaporated in a hiss of steam, leaving only a ruinous gray cloud for all his efforts. Mozenrath stared in slowly building anger at the now-empty vial. He'd lost count of the time. An amateur mistake that was plainly absurd for a sorcerer of his caliber.

He turned a murderous glare on his friend.

"Uh…my bad?" Xerxes said sheepishly. "Can you make another one?"

"Only if you go climb those damned mountains again and bring back another batch of Iyaliv," he snapped. "That was the last I had of that infernal plant."

"Sorry," he said with a look of genuine apology, then gave a hesitant smile. "I guess this means I won't get a song?"

"Xerxes, shut up."

"It doesn't have to be as pretty as hers, just—"

"Xerxes, SHUT UP."

The wide innocuous grin had returned full force and did not falter as Mozenrath flung the empty vial away from him in disgust.

"…can I be your lyricist then? I'm sure she'd appreciate it if there were some words to go along with—"

"One more word, and you're getting Mamluk stitches in the mouth."


	13. Distance

**Distance**

She sat on the cold floor of the vast hall, vaguely aware that her dress was now plastered to her skin by drying blood. The echo of his words countered her pitiful assertion of hope. It was over.

With a detached sigh she looked into the eel's eyes, tears cooling on her face. Over the years she had learned to weep at a distance, and thus kept her sanity.

The creature shifted in her hands but made no sound, still tense and wary. She wondered if he…if it…

Her thoughts died at the sight of its mismatched eyes, absent of recognition and tinged with primitive curiosity. The bloodshot eye seemed to grin at her. Serrated teeth ground together experimentally, as if testing the muscles in the jaw. Coils flexed and slid around her arm.

Xerxes, she repeated. That's your name.

She stayed there late into the night, speaking the same words again and again as Mozenrath's blood stiffened her clothes. The eel was subdued, resting in her palms, perhaps finding her amusing or pitiable or mad. But no tears stood in her eyes; she was still sane.

A natural silence fell over them both, and she thought of the songs she could fill it with. But they were only words yet again. What use were words? Without magic, everything that left her lips was useless. It was over, he had said.

Xerxes, she said for the thousandth time, and the eel blinked its bloodshot eye.


	14. Deliberation

_A/N: I have hardly written anything about Laila. I've mostly used her as an instrument in the plot instead of giving her any personality or independence from my plans. I feel sorry about that, but even when I'm trying to give her a personality, she seems not to have one. Ah well._

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* * *

_

**Deliberation**

The hour for silent and hateful deference had arrived. The proud king did not move as the sorcerer paced before him, the man's sharp, amused gaze passing over the four royal children as if they were little more than livestock. Unable to meet his children's fearful eyes, the king stared at the floor of the throne room. Soon, he would have only three.

The throne room echoed with the sorcerer's slow, deliberate footsteps. The children stood quiet and unmoving before an equally silent court, acting with the grace of condemned innocents. The king felt a mournful twinge of pride at the courage his heir displayed, standing tall with his shoulders rigidly straight, his youthful face a mask of determination. The boy was ready to accept his fate on behalf of his kingdom.

Destane hummed thoughtfully, savoring his absolute power over the fates of innocent children and a kingdom brought to its knees. To the king's surprise, he passed the crown prince and stopped before the flaxen-haired princess. A look of intrigue lit his unnaturally sharp eyes, and the king watched in consternation as a murderer's hand touched his daughter's fair face. The girl shivered under the wizard's piercing gaze, and the king wanted nothing more than to run him through with his blade. If the sorcerer demanded two children instead of one, he did not know if he could restrain himself from drawing his sword.

Destane leaned in and spoke softly into her ear. "You feel their fear, don't you?"

"Lord Destane-"

No sooner had the king spoken than he found his entire body rigid as a stone. The sorcerer turned toward him with a deadly smile.

"I wasn't addressing you, my good king." His azure gaze settled once again on Laila. "Your father is quite protective of you, isn't he? His precious, golden haired daughter?" He lowered his cultured tone. "The lovely Maristean empath."

Laila was visibly shaking, cringing back from the vile man. He merely grinned and drew closer. "Well? How does the fear of a king taste? Sharper than the fear of children?"

The king despaired as she nodded almost imperceptibly. The wizard tilted his head in mock curiosity. "Tell me, my dear, do you know which one of you I'm going to choose?"

Her siblings tensed, waiting for the verdict. The king felt a dry fracture in his heart as his daughter lowered her head slowly, already accepting her unexpected fate.


	15. Horizon

_A/N: References to Antiphony Chapter 16._

_

* * *

_

**Horizon**

It was the second time he had brought her here, to watch the sunset at the rim of a silent, black desert. The sky was a shaded palette, steadily darkening as they stared ahead in silence, sitting beside each other on the dead sand. She leaned her head against his shoulder, and her cold hand sought out his.

"If you had the power to change one thing in your past, what would it be?"

He allowed her to take his hand, and did not flinch as she traced the lines of his palm. "There's no point in thinking about it. I don't look back."

She was quiet for a time, her fingers coming to rest on his wrist, where she could feel the steady pulse of his heart beneath his skin.

"Your turn."

"What?"

"Ask me a question," she said.

He frowned at the pointless game she had thought up, but refrained from voicing his cynicism. She had grown tense beside him, a reminder of how frayed they had become, how they had changed since the first time he had shown her the sunset. Her hands were cold when they touched him now, her smile empty. They were separating along the fractures of his arrogance and her despair; they were still joined because there was little else they could do.

"What would you change?" he said, his tone flat and obligatory.

"I would have married when I had the chance," she answered. He had nothing to say to that, but perhaps his pulse betrayed him. She went on nonetheless. "No, that's a lie. Destane would have taken my brother prisoner, then. I wouldn't wish that fate on him." A pause. "I wish I had been born ugly, or a boy. When did you stop feeling sympathy for the people you kill?"

"When I realized it was useless."

"I meant your age."

"I don't remember," he said shortly. "If you could win your freedom by killing someone, would you?"

Her hesitation contradicted her answer. "No. If you could win yours by killing Xerxes, would you?"

It was his turn to hesitate, and he was aware of her fingers pressing gently on his wrist. "Yes."

He could sense her empty smile as she spoke. "We're both poor liars."

He drew his hand away, the movement firm but not petulant. "Is this finished?"

The question took a moment to settle between them. "I think," she said slowly, "we can continue another day."

They sat still and unmoving until the remnants of the sun disappeared beneath the violet horizon, and it was too dark to see the difference between black sand and gold desert. This time his hand sought hers, and he felt her pulse flutter as he took them back to the Citadel.


	16. Sunder

**Sunder**

The words circled through his head, straight, rigid lines forced to bend until they shattered. The brutal statement of fact could not become a condolence or apology.

The white core of the portal shimmered into existence, lines of light circling the rim in flitting streaks. He stared into the piercing brightness and envisioned a kingdom, palace, wing, corridor, room. The white energy darkened with color and depth, and words reassembled themselves into stark lines.

_Destane is dead; I am the new Lord of the Black Sand; the contract is null; your kingdom is free; I will return her to you._

The lines would end then, curtailed indeterminately as he would wait for the disbelief to subside, leaving only hatred.

The portal was open, clear. An old, worn face beneath a dull crown, a frown of surprise and suspicion; curt, unwilling deference. The procession of words began.

_Destane is dead...? And you… _Subdued incredulity. _Then…_

Continue. _The contract is null; your kingdom is free._

Suspicion faded to awe, a blank stare, a tinge of relief. A change in inflection, a sudden spark of desperate hope.

_Then…she…_

The sorcerer's moment of hesitation did not go unseen. The king faltered, relief to doubt to fear, the air fraught with invisible questions.

Words resumed their forward march; one unrelenting line remained.

_I will return her to you._

Sunder.

_She is free._

_

* * *

**A/N: I hate to insert this kind of note in this story but I thought I would reach more people this way than by posting on my ffnet profile. I am going to take down Height of Faith in maybe a day or two, and I apologize to the readers who followed and reviewed the story. I am in the process of replanning and rewriting it, and will hopefully have a better product out soon.**_


	17. Caesura

**Caesura**

Day by day, sand trickled down glass, a silent, continuous sentence. Awake and asleep, he watched it accumulate.

A deeper chill now permeated the thick stone walls of the citadel. The legions of servants within and without the walls had fallen utterly still. They were not waiting, for the undead did not wait; they were merely in stasis, as lifeless as the stones. Elaborate plans for conquest and half-developed designs for new magic weaponry lay scattered in the study as so many forgotten sheaves of parchment. The sand in a single hourglass continued to trickle while the endless dunes outside became a vast tomb in more ways than one.

The silence was companionable. It reminded him of a different time, a time when he would have killed to possess the calm and rest and certainty that came with the knowledge of the inevitable. A different time, when he was not the master of anything except his own abilities, and those in his company were not his slaves. He remembered the measure of calm and rest and certainty that came with having something more equal than the bonds between master and slave. Something more meaningful. More intellectually stimulating, at least.

They had been equals, more or less. Xerxes the prince had been aggravatingly naive, ignorant, and idealistic to the point of idiocy, but he had stood beside him as a peer, and moreover as a man willing to sacrifice the equality between them to fulfill an unconditional pledge of loyalty. Then in a terrible split-second of transformation, he had become a slave, shedding all traits that had once made him an equal except for his blind faithfulness. In the end, the vow of a prince had been carried out by an aggravatingly stupid, repulsive, drooling eel. The waste of it was disgusting.

Mozenrath rose early, washed, dressed, and after a familiar beat of hesitation, left the gauntlet at his bedside. It was a sick routine now, the methodical reversal of the bond between them. He prepared a meal fit for the dying, ate his portion, and brought the rest to the eel, which never woke until it was forced to. The sorcerer watched his familiar croak and drool, struggling with the simplest of movements, nearly drowning in its bowl of water and pureed meat. He watched and frowned and said nothing until the ritual of torment was over.

Then the eel slid back onto its sleeping cushions and closed its bleary eyes, dragged back by an invisible mire toward deep, dreamless sleep. Here Mozenrath would speak.

_Not yet, Xerxes._

And the eel would obediently open its eyes, willing its dying body to follow its master's orders as it always had. It would lie awake, blinking its discolored irises, and Mozenrath would sit beside it. Silence would reign once again, filled only with his thoughts.

It was poetic that they'd survived the disasters that had befallen their kingdoms, had grown from boys to men under a tyrant, had gone from slaves to free men in an hour of bloody rebellion against the most powerful sorcerer in the world, only to come to this disturbingly easy, pathetic end. Poetic: approaching death at a slow crawl. Poetic: quiet to the point of madness.

The old Xerxes would have made a joke, found a way to crack the shell somehow. This Xerxes merely died further each day.

And so he continued with the sick routine they had established.

_Not yet, Xerxes._

He waited.

The eel did not stir.

He placed a hand, his left, on the eel's skin, over its heart, half the size of a man's, caged within narrow ribs, with an erratic triple beat, but now it was not an erratic or a triple beat, it was neither and none.

Poetic: silence.

Eyes closed, words balanced on the throat, soundless as they rose.

_Not yet._

_Not yet, Xerxes._

The next day, he rose early and prepared a meal fit for the dying. The sand trickled.

* * *

_A/N: Credit for the title goes to demonegg._


	18. Stairwell

**A/N:** A sort of followup to the previous chapter. I've received a lot of positive feedback about Xerxes' character lately and was inspired to write more about him. Thanks, guys.

The pacing of this chapter sets up basically the entire mood; _please don't rush it, and take care to pause at the ellipses_. I actually found reading it aloud to be better than reading it silently.

* * *

A stairwell.

The walls curved darkly over his head, gray stones rimmed by some dull light. There were no torches, and he did not question where the narrow passage led. He was merely walking, and the steps were endless and the same before him. As he moved forward, the stairwell did not widen or turn, did not reveal a door. Eventually he stopped, and sat down. The lack of change made movement pointless.

Somehow, however, the stairwell was no longer empty.

"Hey."

There was a shadow at his right side, just touching the edge of his cloak, and it grew longer as the figure settled down beside him. Simply there, as if expected. Dark brown boots crusted with dirt, resting against the edge of a step, ankles almost touching the stone. The leather was worn.

"Been a while, huh."

...

"…feels like it, at least?"

...

At his lack of response, there was a sigh and the soft crack of a half-hearted stretch.

"Man. Looks like things haven't changed much around here."

...

"So I'll just talk, and you can listen…or not listen, the old routine?"

...

"I'll take that as a yes."

...

A shift, and the voice leaned back, no longer right beside, but a little behind him. The sound of cloth brushing against stone, weight settled on elbows.

"There's something I've always wondered, but never really got around to asking. I take it you wouldn't answer, but I won't ask. I'll just say what I wondered."

A pause, a gathering of words.

"When you were eight..."

The second pause came too soon. It took time for it to end, to adjust to thicker air.

...

"…You know, for me, eight was kind of a big year, but only because of one thing. Father took me on my first climb. He had to carry me half the time, but it was okay. Got to the top and the view was amazing. The wind made it hard to breathe, but I didn't stay up there long. I wanted to climb all the way down on my own. Stumbled a few times, got scraped up. Then I almost fell into one of those deep, bottomless cracks, the ones along the sides of weathered mountains, you've seen them. Could have snapped my neck if Father hadn't caught me. It was…pretty traumatic. The lurch forward, feet meeting air where there was rock just a split-second before, blind panic. I still remember it like it happened yesterday."

...

"Outside of that, I don't remember much from that age. Too young, I guess."

...

"Is it the same for you?"

...

A longer silence, deliberate, no longer passive.

...

"When you were eight. Is it the same for you?"

...

"Look, I don't know the details of what happened that day, what the crippled beggar looked like, how the slave house smelled…how it felt the moment you realized exactly who the winning bidder was."

...

"But that moment, I imagine…it might have been like slipping into that ravine, except there wasn't anyone to catch you. There's rock under your feet one moment and the next there's air rushing by, and you just fall, seeing just a dark chasm under you but knowing there's something hard and probably sharp at the bottom. I imagine maybe it was like that.

"Something that if you survived, you'd remember clearly for the rest of your life."

...

"So I've wondered. What if…what if someone had caught you then. Like that time we went for the Iyaliv and you lost your grip on the way down, but I grabbed you in time. I'm not saying that I could've…I mean, I know you're not weak. You're anything but that. And you've made your own choices, even back then. I know, they were all your choices.

"But I think you were still falling when he made you that offer, whatever it entailed. I know that basically it was stay or go. Power or freedom."

...

"They're different, Moze."

...

"I wonder…if I could've switched places with you that day. Just that day. I could have taken the fall. I was used to falling, by the end of that trip. You might think I'm being arrogant or something, but I'm just saying I wish I could have chosen for you. It's always been clear to me, the difference, and which one is better. No need for philosophizing. It's just which one I could trust myself with. And you…you could have taken the climb with my father instead. It wouldn't have been as fun for you as it was for me, but still, it would have been alright."

...

"I know we're not eight, though, and won't be again. Stupid thing to wonder, right. More than half a lifetime ago."

...

"But you know, another half a lifetime from now, I'll still remember that fall just as clearly. And I'll still wonder."

...

"Well, that's it. Old routine, done."

...

"I stopped you on your way to something, huh. Sorry about that."

...

A decisive shift, and the scrape of crusted soles against rough stone. The shadow retreated from his cloak.

...

"Hope it won't be too long til next time. I got all the time in the world now, after all."

...

"See you around, buddy."


	19. Introduction

**A/N:** I've started on a 25 themes project to accompany **scaragh**'s wonderful fanart on DA (each of these installments corresponds with one of her works). I debated putting these in a separate story but it seems it would be better to keep all my Mozenrath drabbles in one place.

This particular theme may or may not be in the Antiphony universe.

* * *

**Theme 1: Introduction**

He cast a casual glance at his surroundings as he approached the appointed place. It was a pity this little alcove was not a part of his desert. The jagged black formations looming around him were like wind-swept sculptures of black sand, towers he might have drawn up himself if he had the luxury of spare time. They appeared as frozen claws of massive creatures briefly woken from their slumber beneath the earth. Or perhaps a graveyard of their bones. Bared ribcages, coated in dried black blood, curving toward an impartial sky in haphazard warning. The elegance of it was a thing to admire.

He shielded his eyes for a moment from the shafts of sunlight that had managed to survive their descent through the heavy shadows. Almost noon. He had half a day to wait. Plenty of time for some amusement.

He drew the small black orb from his robes, rolling it across his knuckles with detached curiosity. The eel, having ceased its mindless shadow-dodging game, darted close and took an experimental sniff. He moved his hand away, not wanting his familiar to accidentally eat his captive.

"Give the hero some space, Xerxes. He's quite claustrophobic at the moment, I imagine."

Mozenrath contemplated leaving Aladdin in his miniscule prison for another hour, just to preserve the peace and quiet. But on second thought, the street rat's entertainment value was too tempting.

He threw the thumb-sized marble at the nearest clawed tower and shielded himself with magic as it burst open in a shower of dark mire. Disoriented, the street rat lurched forward, hanging securely from multiple restraints. Mozenrath allowed his familiar to fly up and gloat at the hero before he spoke himself.

"Soon, your genie will be mine." Nothing better than a brutal statement of fact to clear the hero's muddled head.

The response was boringly predictable. "You'll never get Genie!"

"And who's going to stop me, Aladdin? You?" he said with a smirk. "You, who refused to be a sultan so you could play 'the hero?'"

"Beats some of your hobbies."

Mozenrath frowned. The street rat was completely at his mercy, trapped in chains stronger than metal, without his genie or any of his sidekicks to help him. A half-hearted blast was all it would take to kill him on the spot. Yet the fool still did not realize just how pathetic his circumstances were. Perhaps a slight reminder was in order.

"I singlehandedly conquered the Land of the Black Sand. I became the most powerful sorcerer of our age. And that's only the start. _I will rule the Seven Deserts_," he asserted, cutting his credentials short for the sake of driving the point home faster. _And I'll start with Agrabah, I promise you. _

"Sure…but how many parties do you get invited to?"

Mozenrath paused at the absurdity of that response. Parties? Did Aladdin really think that conquering the world could be compared in any way to petty socializing?

But perhaps it was only natural that the lazy fool felt there was nothing better in life than saving the weak and drinking himself into oblivion the rest of the time. Mozenrath grabbed his familiar by the throat, cutting short its brainless chortling, and ordered it to scout for the guards who had undoubtedly been sent to rescue their kingdom's pitiful hero. The sultan of Agrabah was even more of an idiot, completely undeserving of his station, for the mere fact he valued gutter trash like Aladdin above the lives of soldiers.

"You lost this battle the minute you got Jasmine mad," the street rat continued with a smug smile. Mozenrath merely laughed. If that was the most potent threat the hero could muster…

"Oh no, I've angered the princess," he mocked. He'd blasted the girl into the ground twice, likely damaging her already limited mental faculties. She had to be dumber than average royalty to have chosen a street rat out of all possible suitors.

"You don't get it. I've seen her mad."

It almost wasn't worth it to respond.

"Oh, should I tremble at the painted toes of her dainty little feet?" he drawled. "I don't think so. Your precious princess is no doubt weeping in some cloistered corner of the palace."

Aladdin shook his head as if in pity, still wearing that painfully ignorant smirk. It was getting on his nerves. Perhaps it would have been better to keep him trapped in a one-inch marble of a cage.

But the street rat had apparently finished boasting of his princess' wrath. He was silent as Mozenrath turned away and headed for the darker recesses of Dagger Rock. Peace and quiet seemed much more appealing now. He would return after some isolation and loss of blood flow had worn down the street rat's spirit.

He allowed himself a small smile. He actually looked forward to the princess' arrival, if she were indeed bold enough to dry her tears and dirty her feet on an impossible rescue mission. It would be exquisitely entertaining to see her face when he fulfilled his end of the bargain. She would bring him the jinni, and he would let her see her beloved Aladdin again. Before ending his pathetic life.


	20. Spit

**A/N:** I'm writing in the order that scaragh posts her art. This drabble is also not necessarily in the Antiphony universe.

* * *

**Theme 6: Spit**

_Next time, know who you're up against._

That infernal voice would not fade from his head. Sweet with scorn, annoyingly high-pitched, complete with a self-righteous smirk, delicate wrist settled smugly against the curve of her hip. The scene replayed itself in his mind ad infinitum and he cursed inwardly, unable even to move his lips in the airtight trap of the Crystal.

For the past hour he had focused all his energy in his right hand, trying to break the Crystal's containment spell with the threads of his own power. His gauntlet was glowing feebly, radiating power to melt away the hundred-layered barrier around him with painstaking slowness. Once his right hand was free, he would be able to escape. That moment could not arrive soon enough.

_Next time, know who you're up against…_

She was a mere slip of a girl with a delicate constitution, a pampered upbringing, and the fashion sense of a whore. A princess who'd been stupid enough to choose a street rat as the future sultan of her kingdom. Yet she'd managed to trap him in his own prison and laughed in his face while he'd been helpless to respond in any way. What was his life coming to?

There was no question in his mind that Agrabah would be the first kingdom slated for conquest. No, not conquest. Complete annihilation. He would raze it to the ground, set it to burn in dark blue and black until it was a charcoal pit of corpses and ash, a permanent stain on the face of the Third Desert. Before that, though, he would capture Aladdin and his little gang of followers, bind them in chains and suspend them over their beloved city, where they would be treated to a nice aroma bath of smoke and the fresh stench of death. He'd make sure the princess had the best view. Oh, he would enjoy watching her suffer. He'd stand right beside her, ignore all the petty threats and curses that would inevitably fly from her pretty mouth, and relish the slow sinking of hope in her rebellious eyes, the pearly tears that would drip uselessly into the roaring flames below. She'd beg him for mercy then, apologize for ever challenging him, for humiliating him and daring to laugh at the most powerful sorcerer in the world. He'd listen until her words bled into incoherence, and then tell her it was too late, because she'd already laughed, and it couldn't be taken back.

Yes, he quite liked that idea, though on second thought he had to admit it was a little over the top. Fire was a rather messy form of destruction, and he could do without the stench of burning flesh part. When he was not so livid, he would be able to devise some other, cleaner but equally destructive method of wiping out her city and crushing her foolish pride. A sandstorm, perhaps, stirred up by the dark spirit of his native sands, enough to bury the entire kingdom in a mass grave and form the only manmade mountain in the Seven Deserts. Or he could find a way for the black sand to absorb the kingdom altogether, trapping it and all its citizens in an endless dimension of roiling black sludge. He had options, and time to consider them all carefully.

If he were able to move his lips, he would have smiled.

_Next time, know who you're up against indeed, Princess._


	21. Coda

**Coda**

She could not sleep. Restless, vagabond thoughts wandered in darkened spaces, wraiths on the shore before an unknown crossing. Drifting back and forth, aware of the stagnant waters and the appointed time for their stirring. She was no longer panic-stricken and terrified as she had been the first several nights when she had received her sentence. The sharp edge of terror had already embedded itself deep within her gut, and it was no longer the cut that caused pain, but the spreading infection that had mired her in acceptance. A slow, sure progression: acceptance; defeat; despair.

The door opened softly, pushed by a hesitant, gentle hand. She listened.

"Raniye?"

The darkness was the same when she opened her eyes. The side of her face pressed to the pillow was uncomfortably damp from tears that refused to dry and thus denied her sleep. Turning toward the door, she watched the candlelight dance, the small flame illuminating the young boy's features. His expression was grave with concern, too solemn for a child, and she closed her eyes to assure herself that she would not begin weeping again.

"It's late, Zychar," she said in a whisper, so that he would not hear the tremble in her voice. "Are you not tired?"

"No." The answer was simple, flat. He moved forward and sat down beside her. She could almost feel the warmth of the flame on her face, and opened her eyes again.

"Do you want me to sing you to sleep?"

"No. I'm not five years old."

"Lullabies were fine when you were eight."

"I'm nine now."

A small smile formed on her lips.

"I won't let you be taken away," he said.

Her smile died, and she measured the time of her breathing, the haphazard flicker of the candle.

"I know. But we've talked about this many times. I have to go."

"You don't!" His voice rose and she automatically shushed him, sitting up and reaching for his hand. She could feel the hammering pulse of his heart through his wrist, his small fingers gripping hers tightly.

"Zychar, if there were another way…" The words thickened in her throat. "You know Father and Mother would have chosen it gladly."

He was shaking his head vigorously, black hair falling over his eyes. He set the candle on her bedstand so that he could brush it away. It was growing long, and she realized sadly that she would not be able to cut it for him anymore.

Her family, the people she loved and would never see again…sometimes, it was more bearable when she allowed herself to think only of the simple things. Cutting her brother's hair. Singing him a lullaby when he was too proud to ask for one. Tending the roses in the garden with her mother. The quiet warmth in her father's study, the worn bindings of her favorite books.

"They haven't thought hard enough then. Why don't they sneak you away? Send you off with Uncle. He would protect you. Then that bastard would never find—"

"Zychar," she cut in sternly.

"I don't care," he replied, and she saw the stubborn-lipped frown of a five year old. "He _is _a bastard, he's evil, he deserves much worse—"

"Zychar," she said more softly, and took both his hands in hers. She looked into his determined young eyes, and reminded him of the cold, sealed logic that had both held her together and kept her from rest all these nights. "What would happen to Chyrilis then?"

The stubbornness in his expression only grew, but she went on.

"What would happen to our people, and Father and Mother, and you?"

"I don't care, I'm not scared—"

"You should be scared, Prince Zychar," she said gently. "If not for yourself, than for the kingdom you will inherit. It will be yours to protect, little brother. Right now it's still Father's duty, and that's why…"

She tugged her words free from the mire, trying again in vain to accept their truth. She felt his hands grip hers harder, as if he were afraid she would disappear.

"That's why he has to let me go."

"Father's a coward."

"Don't you ever say that again."

He pulled his hands free from hers and crossed his arms, staring at the floor.

"It is not an act of courage to incite the destruction of the kingdom. Father is not a coward. He's only trying to keep everyone safe."

"Except you. His own daughter," Zychar said bitterly. His slight frame was trembling. "No matter how you defend him and act brave for him, I can't forgive him. I…I could hate him for this."

"That's not right. If you hate our father, then Destane will have won." She suppressed a shudder at the voicing of that name, and touched her brother's face. "He is already dividing us from our people. Don't let him divide our family."

He was quiet then, and she gave him time in silence, not expecting acquiescence, but the calming of his still-hammering heart. She waited until he turned his eyes from the floor, and drew him close with one arm. She felt his stiffened shoulders slacken, slight arms encircling her. Fierce and stubborn as he was, he was still her little brother, a nine year old boy who had already taken upon himself the undue burden of protecting her. She rested her cheek against the top of his head, comforted by the knowledge that she was in fact protecting him and would not let him come to harm, even if it meant never seeing him again.

"Can I sing you a lullaby?"

"I said I'm not five anymore."

"Please, Zychar." Her voice was a whisper.

There was a pause, and he nodded, cheek brushing her hair.


	22. Dark

A/N: Another part of the Mozenrath25. This one's definitely not in the Antiphony universe.

* * *

**Theme 2: Dark**

He drummed his fingers over the faded map, staring at the outline of the city and the alien script surrounding it. The directions were either a lie, or he had lost his linguistic touch. The frown on his face deepened as he finally pushed the parchment away and let it flutter carelessly to the floor. Xerxes floated near with hesitation, wearing a dumb look of sympathy. Mozenrath paid it no mind and started on a late dinner, though he had no appetite. The search for the ancient mukhtar settlement had led him across two deserts over the course of a week, and he had found nothing.

A minute later his dinner was interrupted by a familiar flash from the chandelier overhead. The dark crystal had turned pale blue, its aura pulsating with the unexpected fluctuations of magic content on his land.

A visitor. He rubbed his temple tiredly with gloved fingers. It had been a good while since anyone had dared sneak onto his land, and he did not welcome a break in the pattern. In any case, he had not given any of his enemies cause for hostility recently, so who could the intruder be?

On second thought, it wasn't too difficult to guess. He set down his glass and opened a viewing window on the dead city with a flick of his hand. His familiar hovered over his shoulder, its attention now diverted from trying to pilfer morsels off his plate.

"Magical intruders!" the eel declared. Mozenrath merely rolled his eyes and ignored it. He was definitely not in a hospitable mood, and if this was Aladdin and his sidekicks trying to pull one up on him, he would give them just the kind of welcome they expected.

The image in the window sharpened and moved quickly, tracking a dark, hooded figure flitting between the alleyways. More than a few Mamluks lay dismembered in its wake, and as the sorcerer looked on in mild intrigue, the intruder struck down two more undead pursuers with a fast left-right crack of a whip. It was an interesting choice for a weapon. Whips were not the best for dealing with the undead, as they were meant to incapacitate through pain instead of force, and Mamluks were immune to the former. And one slip of the hand could accidentally pull an undead enemy closer, either whole or in separate, still-dangerous pieces. This stranger, however, appeared not to care.

Mozenrath began to feel a little more hospitable.

"Intruder good," Xerxes drawled.

"Hm. Perhaps this will be more entertaining than I thought," he mused, and decided to allow the mysterious visitor to continue on undisturbed.

"Aladdin?" the eel said in anticipation.

He shook his head, watching the figure beat a relentless path toward the Citadel. It moved with brutal efficiency accompanied by a certain grace beyond the street rat's level. "It's not Aladdin. Unless he's recruited a new friend to try and distract me while he breaks into the Citadel. A poor plan if that's the case."

"Mozenrath greet stranger?"

"Eventually. Have patience, Xerxes."

The figure cleared the winding cliffs leading up to the Citadel in impressive time, and raised a fist to knock on the massive gates. Mozenrath waved his hand and the fist connected with nothing as the doors swung inward abruptly. The intimidation factor of slow-moving, ominous-looking gates would obviously have no effect on this individual.

The figure hesitated for the first time at the deep black expanse beyond the doors. The interior of the Citadel was utterly lightless and still. Perhaps the stranger was considering exactly how one should deal with the most powerful sorcerer in the Seven Deserts, and in the heart of his stronghold, no less. The hesitation was understandable, even healthy, but Mozenrath found he would be disappointed if the stranger decided to turn back now.

So he gave his visitor a little nudge. A sudden gust of wind swept the figure inside, and the giant doors shut with a resounding bang. Whirling around, the intruder stared at the now-locked entrance, whip raised in defense. After a tense moment, the hooded face turned, looking instead into the invisible depths of the antechamber, shoulders set in a determined posture. Mozenrath took that as his cue.

"Come, Xerxes. It's time we gave our guest a proper welcome."

He stood from the dining table and Xerxes latched onto his left arm. He teleported them into the throne room, where he calmly took a seat and released the labyrinth spell that constantly safeguarded his location. The next door that the intruder opened would lead directly to this place.

"Any more ideas on who it could be?" Mozenrath said conversationally as they waited.

The eel flew in excited circles, happy that its master was in a good mood again.

"Mirage!"

"No."

"Sprites!"

"…Does the intruder look like a bite-sized fairy to you?"

"Amin! Amin Damoola!"

"He's dead, you idiot. Never mind, just be quiet until our visitor arrives."

The chastised eel didn't have long to wait. The stately throne room door was soon kicked open, and Mozenrath immediately drew up a shield at the sharp whistle of a blade cutting through air. He caught a glimpse of gleaming metal inches from his face before the knife clattered to the floor.

Mozenrath rose to his feet with a concentrated blaze of fire in his palm, now fully on guard. But the stranger did not make another move to attack, merely sauntering toward him with a confident gait. The sorcerer narrowed his eyes, not taking his gaze off the shrouded face as he summoned the fallen knife to his left hand.

"A little careless with our arms, are we?" he said coolly. He gave the small blade an experimental twirl.

"You're one to speak, or so I hear, Lord Mozenrath."

The knife almost fell from his grasp at the sound of a voice he knew all too well. The intruder was a woman. Namely, the Princess of Agrabah, Aladdin's fiance and one of the more irritating enemies on his list.

"Princess?" Xerxes echoed dumbly.

His next reaction was to laugh his head off. He knew Jasmine had discarded the traditional role of a princess long before, but the fact that she had donned an assassin's attire and then proceeded on a rampage across his land without any consideration for stealth was too hilarious of a paradox. What was she hoping to accomplish?

"I wouldn't find this so funny if I were you," she said, and cast off her cloak with a dramatic flourish, finally revealing her face…and a few other surprises. He took in her changed appearance with piqued interest and a bit of appreciation. Her hair was tied back in a high ponytail, and despite its ridiculous volume, the look gave her somewhat of a warrior's air, wild and almost barbaric in nature. She was clad in her typical style, a tight-fitting top and loose pants, but she had forsaken the usual glaringly feminine colors for, of all possible combinations, dark blue and black.

He wondered if this were some kind of bizarre joke. Did the princess mean to flatter him by wearing his colors? Did she really intend to fight him looking like that?

An amused smile curved his lips as she approached, brandishing a scimitar. He realized belatedly that he had missed the beginning of her slew of threats.

"…and as the Scourge of the Desert, I claim the Black Sand as my new stronghold. If you have any wits at all, sorcerer, you will step down without contest."

He was momentarily speechless again at the utter nonsense pouring from her lips. Perhaps she had been possessed? That would certainly explain how she had set off the magic detectors. But before he could check for the presence of a spirit, she pointed the sword right under his nose, forcing him to take a step backward.

"Or would you like to test the wrath of the Scourge?"

Xerxes took the chance then to snap at her arm, only to be swatted aside like a fly. The eel hit the side of the throne with a painful-sounding smack and dropped in an unconscious heap.

"Your pest there seems to prefer the second option. I imagine you have a higher sense of self-preservation?"

Annoyed at having a blade shoved in his face, Mozenrath opened his mouth to disarm her with a spell. Then he stopped abruptly as he noticed the root of this entire ludicrous situation.

There was a rose embedded in her hair. The Blue Rose of Forgetfulness, guarded by the so-called Order of the Mystic Monks. Jasmine had somehow fallen under its spell and had lost all memory of herself. Apparently, she had taken on a new identity as a vicious, power-hungry—what term had she used? 'Scourge.'

He found she was infinitely more attractive this way.

And in a rare move, he followed his first instinct, skipping his usual routine of carefully containing a problem (in the dungeons, in this case) before deciding on further action. The opportunity was just too delicious to pass up.

He looked down at her guilelessly, ignoring the scimitar. "You must not be feeling well, dear. You seem to have forgotten that you already live here."

Her eyes narrowed angrily, but he caught the spark of hesitation there before she snapped back at him. "I have never been here before in my life, lying scum. You think the Scourge would fall for such cheap tricks?"

"I'm not lying," he said plainly. "Why would I lie to my own wife?"

He caught the scimitar in his gauntleted hand when she swung it at his head, the magical leather holding firm against the sharp blade. Setting his glove ablaze, he forced her to drop the rapidly overheating sword.

"I'm not your wife!" she snarled, now drawing the whip from her belt. This time he was able to stop her with a quick spell, causing her arms to fall slack at her sides and her feet to freeze in place. Her last weapon fell to the floor and she struggled angrily against her invisible bonds, whipping her head around, almost striking him with her hair. He stepped back and had to suppress a laugh at the ridiculous sight she made.

"I understand you must have had a bad day," he said sympathetically. "Why don't we just talk about it like we usually do? What happened to make you forget me and our home?"

"If you're lying, I swear, I'll make you—"

"Stay up with you to sew Mamluks back together. Yes, I know. I've learned my lesson," he cut in. "I would never lie to you again."

The confused look on her face was priceless. He hid a grin; it would be an unexpected bonus if he could convince her that sewing up damaged Mamluks was her regular duty.

"I guess you don't remember that either, then?" he pressed. "I tried conquering Getzistan without telling you, and you caught me. I thought I made it up to you, but apparently you're still mad to the point of forgetting me completely."

"You…I really am your wife?" she said dubiously, no longer trying to escape her bonds. "But...in Agrabah…"

"So that's where you've been all this time," he said in a relieved tone. His expression changed to suspicion. "Why would you go there?"

"Everyone has been telling me that I'm the princess of that kingdom…but I couldn't possibly be the daughter of their fat useless sultan. Or the fiance of that ragged beggar who kept following me. I am the Scourge of the Desert, not some pampered princess." She was speaking more to herself than to him now. Given her scrambled state of mind, he had to give her credit for escaping Agrabah and journeying all the way to his Citadel without any aid.

"That ragged beggar again, huh," he said tensely. "So you went to see Aladdin?"

Her head snapped up sharply. "What? No! He's the one who's always following me!"

"Right," he snorted. "You went behind my back and sought out that street rat. Which one of his charms did you fall for, the fleas or the pet monkey?"

"I didn't seek him out!" she seethed. "I—"

"Or maybe his talent for lying? He must have caused you to lose your memory somehow so he could convince you to stay in Agrabah with him. With the sway he has over their incompetent sultan, he probably had everyone in the city lying to you about your true identity."

He had her full attention now, and she looked strikingly vulnerable, riveted by his seamless lies as much as by the restraining spell on her body.

"You swore you wouldn't go back to Agrabah unless it was in conquest alongside me," he said flatly, eyes cold. "But you broke that oath. The real stab in the gut is that you likely went there with plans to betray me. I should have known better than to trust an oath from the lips of a Scourge."

There was panic in her gaze now, though she tried to mask it with an air of defiance. "I would never betray anyone to chase after that street rat," she snapped. "If you really are my husband, surely you know me well enough to grasp that fact!"

"I know you well enough to understand that your treachery has no bounds," he said simply, devoid of expression. The worry in her face only grew. She was genuinely concerned about his accusations, having completely bought into the whole elaborate fabrication. He allowed himself a slow, admiring smile, and watched her flicker between alarm and confusion. "And that's why I wouldn't have any other woman by my side."

He moved toward her until he could feel her breath through the wrapping around his throat. Taking care to avoid the flower in her hair, he leaned down to capture her lips in a kiss, cupping her chin in his gauntleted hand. He released the spell on her limbs, and she hesitantly brought her arms up to encircle his neck.

Her face was flushed when he drew back, and he smiled in self-satisfaction as she coyly averted her eyes. "You don't remember that, either? Or anything else I've done to you," he lowered his voice and enjoyed watching her turn an even deeper shade of red. However long she had inhabited this alternate personality, she was obviously still inexperienced. "Well then, I suppose that's one more thing we need to catch up on before we find a cure."

She met his gaze then and he saw that the spark of determination had returned. To his pleasant surprise, she leaned forward to initiate their second kiss. As he pulled her close, however, a guttural whine from Xerxes shattered the moment.

"Master like Princess?"

Mozenrath mentally cursed the eel for its limitless stupidity and piss-poor timing. Jasmine stared suspiciously at the animal as if trying to recall where she had seen it before. Before she could think on it too much, he grabbed it by the throat and held it before her with a forced smile.

"Xerxes' problem is not only frequent memory loss, but inherent idiocy," he explained, then turned an intense glare on his familiar that Jasmine could not see.

"She's a queen now, remember?" he said with deliberate slowness, willing the eel's limited brain to process the information properly. Just in case, he tightened his grip on its throat, preventing it from spoiling his most intriguing scheme yet.

He glanced at her then, her form already pliant in his arms, and spelled it out for her as well.

"My queen. The Mistress of the Black Sand."


	23. Gray

A/N: Make sure to see scaragh's art for this. It's quite awesome.

* * *

**Theme 7: Gray**

"Alright. So." He glanced at his friend now that they'd finally arrived at their destination. "How exactly do you catch a wraith hawk? With wraith mice?"

Mozenrath hardly spared him a glance as he continued ahead, eyes trained on the looming wall before them. The stone was webbed with cracks and some portions had already crumbled, leaving sizable hills of rubble. Over the fallen slabs of rock they could see the center of the ruins, the once magnificent Archive of Haroul.

"Forget about that for now. We're going inside."

The abrupt change in plans came as no surprise. It was happening more frequently now, where Mozenrath would add his own goals to the assignments he was given and more often than not prioritize the former. Outside of the worry that Destane would notice they were taking longer than usual, Xerxes thought it was all rather fun. There was only so much to do in a silent, gloomy desert with the walking dead for company. Mozenrath wasn't much better than the Mamluks when he was absorbed in his work in the laboratory, so Xerxes welcomed dangerous, authority-defying missions wholeheartedly.

"What are you after?"

"It's a library. What do you think I'm after?"

"Let me guess. A hot librarian?"

Xerxes didn't have to look to know Mozenrath was trying to hide a smile. He usually failed by scowling too hard and looking constipated.

"I'll take that as a yes. I'm looking forward to this now."

"I'll bet you are," came the amused mutter.

They both naturally fell silent as they approached the center of the ruins. The stone gate had collapsed halfway, one slab of rock leaning precariously on another. Mozenrath scanned the area carefully and held up a hand to stop him. Xerxes waited for the affirmation that there weren't any surprises lurking nearby.

"This is a relatively easy assignment," Mozenrath said, but still kept his voice down. "The hawks don't bother you unless you give them reason to."

"And if they're hungry?"

"Well, that's why you're here."

"Very funny."

They walked under the crumbling gate, the slanted stone brushing the top of his head. The air smelled of dust and age inside the antechamber. Xerxes took a full breath nonetheless; it was much cooler than the desert outside. Predictably, he broke into a coughing fit and earned a sharp glare from his friend as the sound echoed loudly against the walls.

"More allergies you didn't tell me about?" he hissed.

He forced his breath inward and let his lungs heave painfully against the inside of his ribs. Mozenrath had already turned away, listening to the stilled air around them. Nothing happened.

The Archive was a massive labyrinth. The antechamber was the most straightforward part. After they went through the single door at the end of it, the halls split off in multiple directions and Xerxes could only keep quiet and follow as Mozenrath led the way. At the stoic look on his friend's face, he thought of asking whether he actually knew where they were going, but decided against it. Sometimes it could be fun getting lost or trapped, if only for the thrill of a challenge. As much as Mozenrath tended to complain afterward, Xerxes knew he enjoyed chances to throw his power around.

So it was a little disappointing that they didn't encounter any traps or pissed off ancient guardians. It was a little more disappointing when they arrived at the same cracked wall with the faded symbols for the third time. Mozenrath was obviously annoyed and not willing to admit it just yet. Xerxes leaned against said wall for a moment, about to suggest that they take a lunch break.

The wall slid inward and deposited him on the floor in a cloud of dust. He broke into coughs again, trying to block the debris from his face. Mozenrath dragged him up by the arm and cleared the air with a spell.

"So you are useful for something other than hawk bait."

Xerxes looked up and had to whistle at the vast room he'd just uncovered. The ceiling rose in a gentle slant overhead, sunlight filtering through the cracks to illuminate a square stone construction in the middle of the chamber. The grooved columns gave it the look of a courthouse, but the disrepair it had fallen into made it resemble a mausoleum.

He guessed they'd just found the center of the library, a storehouse within a storehouse, where the most precious materials were kept. Either the bodies of the renowned archivists who had safeguarded this place for centuries, or the most expensive and potentially dangerous magic scrolls in the Seven Deserts. Perhaps both, if anything of value still remained after half a millennium of decay and looting.

"Your lovely librarian awaits," he said with a grin. He dusted himself off and started forward.

The floor collapsed under him.

"SHI—"

The breath was punched out of him as an unseen force stopped his fall abruptly and yanked him back upward in the same motion. He fell onto his back and saw stars for a brief moment, trying to regain his bearings. Sitting up, he chanced a look down the sizable hole that had opened in the floor. That would have been a rather messy death, unless it was actually as bottomless as it appeared. Then it would have been a rather tedious wait.

"Thanks, man," he said breathlessly.

Mozenrath rolled his eyes. "Careless idiot."

Xerxes winced at the pain in his back as he got to his feet once more. "Maybe you should go first this time."

Mozenrath brushed past him and levitated over the hole without a downward glance.

"Showoff," Xerxes called.

He was more careful even as Mozenrath walked in front of him, supposedly screening for danger along the way. They were surrounded by broken shelves and scattered remnants of parchment long faded with age and lack of preservation.

"You're sure it's in there, right? Not out here?" he said, glancing at the piles of nameless documents around them.

"It's more likely in there than out here," Mozenrath replied. "This book wasn't ordinary by any means. It wouldn't have been placed on some random shelf."

"Alright. And what exactly is in this book?"

He could hear the smirk in Mozenrath's voice. "A lot of power."

It was Xerxes' turn to roll his eyes. "And I was hoping it'd be poetry."

Mozenrath ignored him as they reached the entrance. Xerxes looked up in mild interest at the grim-faced gargoyle statues perched over the arched door. There were two on each side, and the smashed remains of one stood at the top of the arch.

"Nice welcome crew," he commented as Mozenrath stepped forward.

A beam of light shot down from the shattered stone overhead and struck Mozenrath in the chest like a physical blow. He stumbled back with a shout and fell, his body surrounded in a pale yellow light.

"Moze!"

Xerxes rushed forward and pulled Mozenrath up off the floor, dragging one arm around his shoulders to support him more easily. He couldn't feel the magic on his friend's body, but the glow intensified and Mozenrath doubled over in pain, breaking free from his grasp and collapsing onto the ground again.

"Whoa, take it easy. We have to get back!" Xerxes said, eyeing the top of the arch nervously. The snarling faces carved in stone suddenly looked a lot more sinister.

But it didn't seem Mozenrath was capable of moving anywhere at the moment as a spasm wracked his thin form. Xerxes tried to drag him away from the doorway and whatever unseen enemy had shot magic at him, but to his surprise he was too heavy to budge.

"What the…"

His friend's body had seized up and his breath was coming in tortured gasps, but somehow the simple act of turning him onto his back required more strength than Xerxes had. He glanced at the arch again in apprehension. Something was definitely wrong; Mozenrath had always been a lightweight, and Xerxes had never had any problems pushing or dragging him around when necessary.

"You gotta snap out of it, Moze!" he yelled in his ear. "Snap out—"

A foot slammed into his stomach and sent him flying backward. He rolled once to soften the impact and sprang to his feet, fumbling for his dagger.

He whipped out the weapon in time to see sharp ridges protrude from his friend's spine and rip through the cloth of his shirt. Webbed wings burst forth from his shoulder blades and spread like a canvas over his back.

"Oh shit."

His legs had grown outlandishly long, clawed feet tearing free from his boots. It looked as if invisible hands were smearing dark clay over his pale skin, coating his entire body in gray. Xerxes jumped to the side as a thick tail twisted free of his pants and lashed the ground with an angry crack.

Mozenrath's voice was only half-recognizable in the guttural snarl that issued from his throat. Xerxes backed away warily as his friend rose from the ground on strong, clawed limbs, shoulders broadening beyond normal human proportions. It was a grossly inappropriate moment for humor, but Xerxes found it funny that his friend's upper arms had finally stopped looking like Raniye's.

_Back to reality, _Xerxes reminded himself. The dagger in his hand now seemed as useful as a blade of grass.

Mozenrath whipped around, and Xerxes would have laughed at the sight of his ugly stonewashed face if not for the affirmation that he was in mortal danger. His friend's mouth stretched unnaturally wide to reveal unpleasantly sharp teeth, cold murderous eyes glaring at him from beneath prominent, hairless brows.

"Moze. It's me," he called half-heartedly. It was worth a try, though he was pretty sure he'd have to run for his life within a few seconds. "Xerxes. Careless idiot. Idealistic fool."

He took several steps backward as the gargoyle stalked forward with a menacing growl, tail lashing behind him.

"Hey, I wasn't insulting you, those are just my other names, remember? Come on, snap out of it!"

He backed away faster as Mozenrath tensed, about to spring forward and probably tear him to shreds.

"Whoa!" He leaned backward just in time as a clawed hand swiped at his chest. The breeze from its passing tickled the skin of his throat as if warning that his carotid would be the next target.

Regaining his balance, he turned and ran. There was another threatening snarl behind him and the scratch of claws against the floor. But he didn't look back, eyes darting around to find someplace to hide or a weapon he could use. Something blunt so he could knock him out in one clean blow. He didn't want to use the dagger unless he had no other choice.

The rows of half-crumbled shelves were his first shelter. He dove beneath the slant of a shelf that leaned on another, hoping Mozenrath wouldn't be able to fit through. He scrambled forward on his hands and knees, pants snagging on splintered wood and bookends, palms slipping on fallen parchment. He coughed at the dust stirred up from the floor but forced himself to move faster as piles of books crashed down behind him, the shelves bending under the weight of the creature that had just landed on them.

"Who's the careless idiot now?" he said under his breath. "Just had to go barging in, couldn't wait for her to come out and greet you…"

The slanted shelf overhead creaked dangerously and he knew he had to get out of there soon. Unfortunately he was still without a suitable weapon. Thinking fast, he dropped the dagger and snatched up a half-furled scroll, then tore the parchment from the silver rollers on the ends and gripped the two cylinders in his palms. They were a little short but would have to do until he found something better.

He stumbled out of the narrow aisle just as a final strike from the gargoyle's tail brought the rest of the shelves down in a shower of dust and splinters. He looked up and met a vicious sneer, finding no trace of humanity left in his friend's mutated face. Mozenrath leapt from the pile of wood and landed in a crouch, claws tearing into scattered paper. His wings flared wide to an intimidating effect, but this time Xerxes stood his ground, brandishing his makeshift weapons.

He ducked and swung his arm upward just as Mozenrath charged toward him, clocking him square in the jaw with the metal roller. He followed with a blow from his left, snapping his head sideways. Mozenrath stumbled, disoriented, and Xerxes kicked him hard in the side. The gargoyle slammed into a shelf and the impact sent books and scrolls tumbling down onto him. Xerxes had to wince when a particularly heavy looking volume landed in a rather choice spot and elicited a howl of pain from the furious creature.

"Okay Xerxes, what's the plan?" he muttered, trying not to panic. "Just beat him unconscious? You've always wanted to, but…"

Mozenrath recovered faster than he expected and lunged forward with wounded pride and even deadlier intent. He couldn't back away fast enough as a clawed hand hooked around his knee and brought him down with a jarring crash. Temporarily winded, Xerxes lost his grip on the rollers and could only strike out blindly with his fists and elbows when sharp fingers dug into the front of his vest and dragged him up. The tail came out of nowhere and scored him across the face, almost dislocating his jaw. He instinctively tried to raise a palm to the stinging pain but Mozenrath shoved him hard, claws still buried in his shirt.

His back hit the side of a shelf and somehow it held, the ridges of book bindings digging into his spine. Narrowed, animalistic eyes glared straight into his, teeth bared and ready to make good on the warning to his artery.

Xerxes froze, hardly breathing as the claws pricked his skin under the fabric. The vehement hatred in his friend's feral gaze turned to predatory satisfaction.

"Hey. Wake up, buddy," he said, strangely calm about his own impending death. It struck him that if Mozenrath ever did snap out of it, he'd have to deal with the rather messy sight of his best friend torn open and probably half-eaten. By him.

Mozenrath snarled and flared his wings, jaws opening wide. As a last resort Xerxes dug his hands into his pockets, hoping against hope that there was some remnant of powder or magical item he'd forgotten he was carrying. His fingers closed around the brittle leaves of a familiar plant and he drew it out with lightning speed, shoving his hand between the gargoyle's jaws just before they could close around his throat.

He screamed and his vision flashed black as dozens of teeth pierced his hand straight through. He screamed again when he automatically tried to pull it back and only succeeded in dragging the broken flesh against the teeth.

Blinded from pain, he hardly felt the gargoyle release him, and slumped to the ground, hand falling to his side. Bright red blood trickled into a puddle under his palm; he could see that, at least. Tears coursed down his face and blurred his vision further, but there was a flash of golden light in front of him and he brought up his good hand to shield his eyes.

He waited for the claws to drag him up again and for the creature to finish him off. But nothing happened. The only sounds he could hear were his own choked breaths and delirious curses. And then a familiar voice.

"Shit."

Hands, not claws, tugged on his vest and drew him sideways to lie down, and he blinked away the water in his eyes to see his friend's face hovering over him, pale and ashen as ever.

"You idiot," Mozenrath hissed, taking his arm and lifting it with care that belied his anger. The throbbing in his tattered hand lessened slightly as the blood flow to the limb slowed. "What the hell did you do?"

"Missed a punch?" he offered with a wince.

"Just shut up," was the snapped reply as numbing warmth spread over his arm. Xerxes dared to look at the remains of his hand and was relieved to find the pale yellow glow of healing magic surrounding the nasty wound.

They were silent for a few minutes as the magic knit together torn muscle and fractured bone, removing the pain inch by inch. It dwindled to a dull itch as the skin began to grow back.

The look of intense concentration did not fade from Mozenrath's face until the last scratch had closed. He finally released his elbow and sat back heavily on the floor, a trickle of sweat running down his forehead.

Xerxes sat up and flexed his fingers. There was no pain, and the only sign that he'd almost lost them were small scars near his knuckles.

"What the hell happened?" Mozenrath demanded, wiping his brow with a torn sleeve. He seemed to notice then that his clothes were in less than pristine shape and frowned. Standing up, he inspected himself quickly and cursed.

"Yeah, you look pretty ridiculous with that hole in your pants," Xerxes said, gesturing at his backside when he turned. "The tail was cool though. Maybe you should try growing it back without going all batshit."

Mozenrath glared at him sharply and dusted himself off, then turned and spat blood with a disgusted grimace. His blood, Xerxes realized.

"I remember getting hit by something right when we got to the door. That's it," he said, tone rough and uncertain.

"Long story short. You got turned into a gargoyle and tried to rip out my throat. I dodged a lot. Then when you were really close to ripping out my throat I shoved some Iyaliv into your mouth. It worked."

Mozenrath stared at him as if he'd just transformed into a gargoyle himself. "The Iyaliv has transmutative properties?"

Xerxes started to laugh and couldn't stop, falling onto his back again with relief and a last rush of adrenaline. He was alive. He'd almost been torn to pieces by his own friend and his hand had gotten a taste of what it felt like. But with insane luck he'd managed to survive and Mozenrath was back to normal. And after all that, the thing his friend was most interested in was a random spell ingredient.

"This isn't funny."

"Yes…yes it is," Xerxes managed. He returned Mozenrath's annoyed look with a grin. "You were pretty jacked as a gargoyle."

"Apparently." Mozenrath glanced around them, raising an eyebrow at the shattered shelves. Beneath the mask of nonchalance, he was obviously unnerved by his own loss of control, one of the very few things he feared.

"Well, I guess worse stuff could have happened." Xerxes stood and brushed the dirt off his pants. Mozenrath repaired his own clothes with a spell and turned back toward the stone structure where this whole mess had begun.

Xerxes gave him a wary look. "Uh, count me out this time, if you're still crazy enough to try going in."

"You have any more Iyaliv?" Mozenrath said with a faint smile.

"You have a spare hand?" Xerxes countered.

"You're just too weak to last another round."

"Yeah? Wanna bet on that right now? Me against your nonexistent muscles."

Mozenrath regarded him coolly. A smirk slowly spread across his face to mirror Xerxes' expression. They lunged at the same time.


	24. Destiny

**Destiny**

"Mother, what's my destiny?"

She paused in her reading and looked up from the table. The multicolored crystals lay scattered on the floor, obviously a result of his short attention span. He sat cross-legged among the priceless gems, waiting expectantly for an answer.

"Your destiny is to align at least two crystals before dinner," she said firmly, but her lips lifted in a half-smile.

"I did it the other day," he protested. "It's just not working now."

"You are too distracted, Morathai. What has made you so curious all of a sudden?"

"Well, whenever I learn a new spell the brothers usually say I'm destined for greatness." There was pride in his young voice and Andraya had to smile a little more. "But Elder Irodan sometimes tells me I have an important destiny to fulfill. What's the difference?"

"They are talking about the same thing," Andraya answered gently. "The proper question is what is greatness, not destiny."

"I know what greatness is. It's being famous and really good with magic. Like you and father."

She laughed, rising from her chair to sit on the floor beside her son. "I believe fame is something that comes with royal status. And our magic is strong because we practice very hard."

"But the royal family's always strong at magic even without practice. Except Elana, that is."

"Morathai," she scolded lightly. "Don't pick on your sister."

"But she's not here," he said with a mischievous grin. "And it's true."

"Morathai—"

"Sorry, mother."

She regarded him sternly for another moment before continuing. "Greatness is not something that I or anyone else can teach you. It is something you have to learn for yourself."

He looked mildly surprised. "But I thought Helios told you my destiny."

"He did. But that does not mean he showed me how you would reach it. He never does that."

"Why not?"

"Because then you wouldn't have to work at anything or learn on your own. You wouldn't be free to choose anything for yourself."

"But you've already chosen for me by putting me in the temple," he pointed out.

Andraya had to pause at the uncanny intelligence her son sometimes displayed. "Yes, because Helios chose you first. As His servant, and a leader of our people. But that does not mean you are without choice."

His brow furrowed in confusion. "I don't understand."

"Your father and I have given you everything in our power to prepare you for your destiny. All the knowledge and wisdom of the priests and the sacred power of Helios in the sanctuary are open to you. But it is still your choice to learn and grow toward your destiny. No one else can decide that for you, and you will not achieve it by doing nothing."

He appeared deep in thought. "I still don't really understand."

"Morathai," she said, her gaze softening as she touched his hair. "Helios has given you many unique gifts, but the gift of your destiny is rooted in your heart. It is the potential He knows you can reach, the potential to lead and protect our people and cast His light over all who are in need of it, and even over those who are yet unaware of their need. Your many other gifts are meant to help you become the man He has seen."

"So how will I know if I've done it?"

She smiled. "You will know when the time comes. For now, perhaps you should just focus on these crystals."

He picked up the nearest one reluctantly and levitated it in his palm. His control was shaky and it threatened to tilt, but he managed to keep it upright while he slowly moved another close beside it. The faint light emanating from both mixed together and formed a tentative rapport.

"There, they're almost aligned," he said, carefully raising the two floating gems nearer to her face.

She broke his spell by taking the crystals in her own palm, and planted a kiss on his head.

"Mother…" he said in dismay, staring at her closed hand.

"I love you," she said simply. He wrinkled his nose and she laughed. "Your father is coming soon. We will meet him for dinner."

She picked up a third gem from the floor and put all three in his hands. "Show him what you can do after the meal."

He looked doubtful but stood together with her and soon the easy smile was back on his face as they left the library, his small hand clutching hers.


	25. Pain

A/N: To accompany scaragh's beautiful art entitled "Pain." Her drawing was directly inspired by a scene in Antiphony, while this short fic is not part of that universe.

* * *

**Theme 20: ****Pain**

The glow of the crystals heralded her arrival with cold precision. Despite the strong winds tonight, she had still made the journey and kept their appointment. As usual, he welcomed her with a cold smile and a proffered hand she would not take.

She stepped down from the window on her own and brushed past him without ceremony. The magic carpet that had borne her here drifted away in reluctant obedience, clearly preferring to bring its mistress away from this place and him as soon as possible. It was equally clear what she preferred.

She kept her back turned to him as she pulled the gems and silk from her hair and set them on the dresser in methodical order. The ornamental restraints had not been enough to preserve her normally pristine appearance from the wind; her long hair was disheveled and she was already working to untangle the mess, fingers combing from the scalp.

"I take it your journey was less than pleasant," he said.

She tilted her head to ease the passage of her hands through a difficult knot. "As if that's something new."

He chuckled and moved to the dresser, fingering the priceless gems she had tossed aside like small inconveniences. "I appreciate the commitment, sultana."

Her hands paused for a split-second in response to the jab, resuming their task more forcefully as heat briefly prickled the cold silence.

He touched her shoulder with his gauntleted hand and turned her to face him, meeting only slight resistance. He returned her resentful stare with an easy smile, stroking her face once with his knuckles.

"Ah. Now this will not do." He inspected the smear of dirt on the back of his hand with disapproval. "We'll have to get you cleaned up."

Her delicate mouth tightened in a frown and though there was little point in objecting, she still spoke against him. "I'm not wasting any more time here than I have to."

"This is my time as well, and it isn't going to waste," he said lightly. "Come with me."

…

His hands moved in a gentle rhythm through her long damp hair, brushing the slick skin of her back with each iteration. She relaxed by slow degrees, shoulders falling from their rigid posture, weary body soaking in the warmth of the water and his breath on her neck. Her arms still rested on the sides of the bath as if allowing her an escape, to stand to her feet and leave in a moment. A little more time and she would relinquish the notion.

The knots that had given her such difficulty separated easily with small currents of magic from his hands. The gauntlet was not necessary for such low level spells and he had set it aside with his robes. The skeletal fingers of his right hand proved useful in this, combing through luxurious strands of hair with meticulous precision. He was careful not to brush her skin too often with them. Though he relished each unguarded shiver, it would not help to accomplish his purpose.

In time her breathing grew even and he knew without seeing that she had closed her eyes. She unconsciously leaned back against him so that he could only brush her hair around her shoulders, down the smooth skin of her arms and into the water where it fanned out in a horizontal curtain. The crown of her head came to rest under his chin and her face tilted slightly to the side, drawn slack with the need for sleep. He shifted to hold her more comfortably, securing her legs between his.

He smiled at the sigh that escaped her lips with the next purposeful touch of his hand against her skin. He lowered his cheek to hers and she leaned into him instinctively, already lost in careless slumber and reminiscence. His lips murmured words she would recognize in his warmth and her unspoken need, and his smile grew wider at her answering whisper.

"That name is dead," he whispered back, and stopped the current of magic from his hands.

Pain bloomed in her eyes as his fingers forcefully tugged through a thick knot in her hair, sharp bones raking downward and cutting into her shoulder. She jerked forward out of his embrace, unheeding of the rude splash of water on his floor. She whirled to face him, the nails of one hand haphazardly grazing his skin beneath the surface. The fury in her eyes promised vengeance that she would not deliver.

…

He allowed her some quarter the first time as she lay face down, eyes and expressions hidden from him. He allowed himself more time to compensate, easing into her with maddening slowness, drawing out the wait until she pushed back in impatience and took him within her fully. Her hands clenched into fists above her head, nails biting into the soft fabric of the pillow as he began to move, still taking his time.

She was hot and slick and it was only out of practice that he restrained himself, chest brushing lightly against her back with each slow thrust. She kept rigidly still and unresponsive as he knew she would, determined to defy him as long as he would play this game. They both knew she would lose; it only sweetened his victory.

With calculated timing he pushed in at an angle and elicited a stifled moan, a first concession of what would be many. He pressed his body against her back, driving deeper into that hot juncture between her legs. His hands trailed up her sides and she tensed further when his palm sought her mouth. She met his hand with her teeth and he covered her lips nonetheless, pulling her head back from the pillow, craning her neck toward him as he thrust harder.

She fought him the rest of the way as expected, striving to break his rhythm and force her own upon him, ignoring the skeletal hand that dug into her delicate flesh, refusing to bend to his will. He only drove into her faster, meeting her challenge and giving her more than she demanded on his own terms, testing just how much she could take.

_Be careful what you ask for._

_Be more careful who you ask._

He wondered if she had begun to forget what he had warned her from the start.

…

The wall was cold at his back the second time, shoulder blades shifting against the stone with each push. Her hands were splayed against the unyielding surface on either side of his head, resolutely refusing contact as she rocked her hips against him.

He gripped her waist loosely, the gauntlet once again on his right hand to prevent further damage to her delicate skin. He watched her through a warm haze of pleasure, observing how she breathed, damp hair falling around her face. As expected, she was still trying to hide, this time merely through closed eyes. The pace she had set was steady and unerring, sufficient and nothing more.

He had to admire her again for how much and how quickly she had changed—adapted, more precisely, to blind circumstance and what her kingdom demanded of her as its ruler. A burden she had learned to bear alone by breaking nearly all of what she had once been as Agrabah's cherished princess, and constructing piece by piece the new role she had taken on as the kingdom's first true sultana.

And she had adapted to this—agreement, liaison, partnership, even—surprisingly well, in spite of all that had once marked them as mortal enemies. On the contrary, he was certain this was actually the reason she had sought him out in the first place.

There was no enemy to keep closer than him. She had realized it as soon as the cordial threats from neighboring kingdoms had begun, enterprising rulers seeking an easy target in a newly isolated kingdom with a childless widow at its head. He remembered clearly the night she had first visited him, alone, without any magical guardians or concealed weapons. She had come to negotiate with nothing but herself as the opening offer. He had laughed, as intrigued as he was amused. It was strange, regarding her with both ridicule and respect, but the terms had been appetizing enough. He remembered the rest of that night with even sharper clarity.

But at times this worked almost too well, and the knife's edge that divided them seemed to have grown dull. Dull and tedious, as if he were a mere task to complete instead of her most dangerous enemy and most valuable ally. He had always preferred a challenge and knew she could offer it, if he only pushed her in the right way.

His hands stroked her hips and the curves of her thighs, palms sliding smoothly over her skin each time she rose and sank onto him. Leaning forward, he kissed her slowly, tongue meeting hers as she panted against his lips, not allowing the distraction to break her rhythm. It was slightly irritating, her persistence in finishing sooner, as if she expected to leave then. He would have to correct that.

She flinched and drew back when his hand found that core of pleasure between her legs and began to work her in a new rhythm. A hiss of protest passed between gritted teeth and she brought her hand away from the wall to grasp his wrist. But she stopped short of fighting him, grip going slack within seconds as her body adjusted its pace to match his, eyelashes fluttering with each conjoined stroke. His mouth trailed over her cheek to her ear, murmuring poison and provocation, and he savored the way her breathing quickened in resentful passion. With his gloved hand he caressed her face, brushing her hair back each time it cascaded forward.

"Look at me," he commanded softly.

There was a delay before she obeyed, and he almost paused at the sight of the watery film over her sharp irises. She met his gaze unrepentantly, eyelashes glistening.

As always, her silence spoke more clearly than any words she could have voiced.

…

"They should reach Suharren within three days and Erias the night after. Prince Tessur will be waiting for them there."

One hand ran a brush through her now dry hair while the other replaced the ornaments in memorized order without the benefit of a mirror. The straight path of her eyes was fixed on the open window, where the desert and sky were nearly the same shade of black.

"Wait until the last of them leaves Suharren. That city is not to be touched," she said, sliding a jeweled pin above her ear. "When they reach the border of Erias, make sure none of them makes the crossing."

He chuckled, trailing her movements lazily from his vantage point on the bed. One hand traced absent patterns in the empty sheets beside him.

"Prince Tessur is quite fortunate to be spared your vengeance."

The reply was tempered, brief. "I'm not sparing him."

He raised an eyebrow curiously and craned his neck to continue following her as she walked to the other side of the room.

"Suharren would serve better," he offered. "A city and an army at once—there are few stronger warnings to deliver to an enemy. It would be no additional trouble on my part."

"No."

He drew himself up on his elbows, watching her with a crooked smile. "Still have a heart for human collateral?"

She tied the last strip into her hair and returned his amused gaze without humor. "It has to be at his borders, right at his doorstep. I want him to see it as it happens."

For a moment he had nothing to say, wondering if the woman standing before him had kept anything from her past life other than her hatred for him.

"As I said, I'm not sparing him," she said simply.

"Indeed," he mused, as close to open admiration as he could get.

"Four days, then."

"Four days," he affirmed. It still bothered him slightly, the way she spoke in commands as if he were a servant instead of her master. He knew she would never acknowledge the truth, but he supposed he was content for now. It was a telling sign of her insecurity, belying her pride and ruthless efficiency as mere constructs each time she traveled across the deserts for him.

She wrapped her cloak around her shoulders and was already moving toward the window when he stopped her.

"Wait."

He spoke a simple spell as he approached her and his gauntlet glowed briefly. She looked down at the slim gold chain that had appeared in his palm, linked with a single onyx stone shaped in the crest of his domain. She did not move as he placed it around her neck and felt the slight flicker of energy of the enchanted gem recognizing its wearer.

"This will allow you to come here directly," he said. "No need for archaic transportation through desert winds and storms."

She looked at him warily for a long moment, questioning his purpose, an unexpected maneuver outside the terms they had set.

"It's late," he said lightly. "I'll return you to your kingdom."

"I'll manage on my own." She moved back, eyes never breaking contact. "Just carry out what we agreed upon."

He smiled as she stepped onto the carpet at the window, soon to leave his land with one more adornment than she had arrived with.

"I won't disappoint you."


	26. Observance

**Observance**

The room was nearly empty, he noticed as he knocked hesitantly. The dry sound echoed around the open doorframe. The princess raised her head as if from a daze, dark eyes coming to rest on him. The decided smile on his face stayed; he did not let it drop.

"Hi," he said with reserved cheer.

"Hello," she said. Her voice was softer than before; it was the distance between them this time, longer than the span of a dining table. It held the same resolve, hidden well enough that if he were not so adept at listening and finding, it would have slipped his notice.

"Just thought I'd drop by...check out what everyone else's room looks like," he said, still standing at the doorway. She had risen to her feet politely, one delicate hand on the back of her chair, beside the desk where she had been reading. He glanced at the book she had chosen. Two nights of torture here, and this was how she passed the time during the day. He would have to try it.

"Please come in," she said.

He stepped inside, hands tucked in his pockets. Pretended to look around in curious appreciation, observing the softer decor of her quarters. It held more frill than he would have expected for a room in the kingdom of the dead.

"You do some redecorating?"

"No, I haven't."

He walked closer and stopped a few feet away from her.

"How is it for you?" he said quietly.

She stared at him, and he backtracked hastily.

"I mean, your reading...how is it?" he said, gesturing toward the desk and the forgotten book there. It had flipped closed when she had put it down, and he wondered briefly if she could find the right page again.

"It's a history of an ancient kingdom I'd never heard of before," she answered perfunctorily, and held it out to him. "Do you want it?"

"No, no, you should finish it first," he said, but took the book from her anyway. He looked through it awkwardly for a minute before handing it back. He met her gaze without wavering and finally managed to take the reservation out of his voice and smile. "Want to take a walk around, Raniye?"

A small smile spread across her full lips, and he was glad the awkwardness was beginning to fade. The initial hurdles were hard, but once they were past, it was always worth it. He had yet to clear them when it came to Destane's apprentice, but he would not give up there either.

It was most important that he get past them with her first. She was strong despite her delicate appearance, and she would not ask for help. To him, that was all the more reason to reach out.

"I mean, this place is mostly gloom and gray, but I'm sure we'll find something more interesting," he said, offering his arm with exaggerated grace. "My lady?"

The hesitation faded a little more from her eyes as she took his arm, and etiquette set them both in place, as if they were not in a dreaded land of the undead as prisoners, but back in the courts where they both had been raised and would have done this every day out of custom.

They walked together to the door, and he closed it behind them, hearing her breath catch slightly. Knowing the relief in that breath, he resolved to keep her out of that room as long as he could.


	27. Drown

A/N: Another Mozenrath25 theme to accompany one of scaragh's drawings...which accompanies Chapter 8 of Antiphony.

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**Theme 21: ****Drown**

_You want to feel the cost of power that badly? Have patience, Princess. You will learn._

It was a little surprising just how effective the ploy with the gauntlet had been. He'd succeeded in upturning a slew of her arrogant preconceptions of him in one conversation, and despite the petty insults she continued to throw at him, he had seen the new respect in her eyes. Soon, fear would no longer be the dominant force driving her to meet his challenge.

He'd checked in on her a few times during her recent stretch of silence. She'd apparently gotten it into her head to negotiate with the sultan of Desrial over some triviality or another, still attempting to carry every burden on her own without letting a hint of her true motives slip to her father or Aladdin. The physical and mental exhaustion she was relentlessly pushing herself into only played in his favor.

Still, it was rather intriguing that she had chosen not to speak with him at all for nearly three days. Perhaps she had taken the intended lesson of patience a little too literally. In any case, he had few complaints, as uninterrupted sleep for three nights was infinitely preferable to putting up with self-righteous tirades from a spoiled princess.

The day's work had been taxing as he had reinforced the anti-illusion shields on his Citadel, ever aware of the deadline drawing near in a fluorescent trickle of sand. He knew his enemy all too well and the last thing he wanted was a gloating visit from the accursed goddess. Satisfied that the defenses were stable, he retired to his chambers to rest, and had just forced down a regular dose of the vile-tasting Elixir when a familiar voice shrieked into his mind.

_Mozenrath!_

He raised a brow and set down the vial, a smirk of amusement winning over the disgust he always felt after drinking the potion. _What do you know, I actually kind of missed that petulant, grating voice._

He drew them both effortlessly into the special dimension he'd created for their meetings, wondering at the cause of her urgency. Perhaps she'd finally snapped under the self-imposed pressure and had decided to take her anger out on him.

The easy smile remained on his face as he greeted her in the darkness. "Well, Princess, it's been a while—"

She cut him off with a plea he only half-heard, wild desperation in her eyes. "Help m—"

She abruptly vanished, the dark air empty before him. With a frown he concentrated, now serious, and located her presence within seconds. A mild shock – she was in the middle of the desert, at an oasis, inside a body of water, restrained by an eight-legged sea creature.

He couldn't help but roll his eyes as he made the instantaneous journey there, chanting the necessary spells to block out the inevitable cold and allow himself to breathe.

"I see you've gotten yourself into quite a predicament, Princess," he commented in lieu of a second greeting. In the limited visibility of the water he saw her several feet away, her back turned to him. The water glowed pale yellow against her skin, her hair floating like a mass of smoke around her head.

"Who's there?" another voice snapped. A female voice even shriller than the princess', something he'd thought only Mirage was capable of. He sensed the woman's presence not far from Jasmine. It reeked of magic – the flowery, ostentatious type that he loathed.

He confirmed the frailty of her magic with a simple test, easily snuffing out the yellow light she had cast over the water. The water turned pitch-black and he fought another eye-roll as the woman blindly cast about her surroundings, trying to find the intruder.

A wordless command from his gauntlet and the water lit up once more, but in his preferred color. He ignored the princess for now, focusing on the other incompetent female in the vicinity. A mermaid whose hair was colored and styled after a lobster, absurdly clothed and wearing a vicious expression he'd seen on more than one spiteful sorceress. But the wild feel of her magic affirmed that she was definitely not a sorceress.

"Ah. A water elemental. With rather elementary magic, I might add."

The dismissive statement had the desired effect of making her bristle. Neither she nor the princess could see him as he had not revealed himself yet, and it was briefly amusing to watch them both search the water frantically for his whereabouts.

"I don't like strangers in my water insulting me, so if you know what's good for you…" she seethed, then paused as he stepped into visibility beside Jasmine.

The octopus holding the princess captive backed off in wary surprise, obviously a creature with a bit of intelligence. "Nice pet," he commented, wondering at the rarity of such a large specimen.

The princess seemed temporarily stunned by his appearance, though she had called him here in the first place. He suppressed yet another eye-roll, about to give her a pointed reminder of her incompetence when he noticed the elemental approaching.

The vindictive expression on her face melted away as she eyed him like a starving beggar would a piece of fresh bread. The inadvertent association with the street rat killed his amusement and he watched in silence as she swam toward him, swaying the portion of her body where her hips would have been. At the moment he could think of few things less attractive than a woman who was half-fish trying to seduce him with the fish part of her anatomy.

"And what might your name be, stranger?" she drawled, an oily smile stretching across perfectly rouged lips. He saw her hand reaching for him and decided on a whim to let this farce continue only to observe the princess' reaction, for she was definitely already reacting.

The elemental seemed to have forgotten about the princess altogether as she drew her fingers up his chest and brushed his jaw. "Someone as handsome as you should be given time for a proper introduction. I have plenty of time tonight. My name's Saleen, goddess of the sea."

Now that was amusing. A mere elemental with powers more capable of decoration than destruction, claiming godhood. She made Mirage's boasts sound valid.

"My name is Mozenrath," he said, finally stopping the trajectory of her hand before it could touch his cheek. Even through fleshless fingers and the leather of the gauntlet he could feel how delicate her hand was. One twist and he could snap at least three of her prettily manicured fingers if he wished. But he had always preferred magical power over pure physical force.

"And I am out of your league."

He sent a current of electrifying power through the glove and into the mermaid's body. She gave a shriek that hurt his ears, but it was satisfying to see her cringe back in pain, the predatory look on her face replaced once again by unadulterated malice. It was even more satisfying to hear the princess let out an involuntary breath of relief beside him. So she had moved beyond fear already. He hid a smile as he faced her, wondering what else he might discover about her progress toward his goals.

"A pleasure to see you in person, Princess. But you have a bit of explaining to do; I hate having to leave the Citadel at this hour," he said coolly. He noticed then another point of intrigue. Even in the water he could catch the distinctive scent emanating from her, the aroma of Sejhai. An aphrodisiac.

He certainly looked forward to hearing her explain _that_, even more than her reason for crossing paths with an angry mermaid in the middle of the night.

"Just get me out of here," she huffed, clearly not as grateful for his intervention as she should have been.

"You must be another one of the princess' boytoys," the mermaid snarled before he could respond to the princess' insolence. She was still nursing her injured hand, glaring at him with utter hatred. "Didn't realize she had a sorcerer at her beck and call."

"And you've only got a cephalopod. How quaint," he retorted, narrowing his eyes. "It is painfully obvious that you are unaware of who I am. I am the Lord of the Black Sand, and I bend to no one's will."

She sniffed like a petulant child. "I have no interest in sandy places, whatever color they may be. And you can bet I've got more than an octopus under my command. I've got the entire sea."

"Please," he laughed, wondering just how long she had gone unchallenged and delusional in these waters. "I've turned elementals like you into Mamluks before."

"I'd like to see you try," she said angrily, clearly ignorant of what Mamluks were. No matter; he wouldn't waste his energy turning her into one since she'd be utterly useless on land.

He raised his gauntlet in anticipation of her first spell, curious as to what kind of offensive magic she was capable of. The water began to swirl rapidly as she grinned and floated back, directing the currents at him and the princess. He quickly rooted himself to the sandy floor, swaying only slightly in the growing vortex. The princess was not so lucky, crying out as she was swept off her feet and into a spinning tunnel. He was half-inclined to leave her there for the entertainment, but didn't want her brains scrambled more than they already were. Though it had been a while since he had manipulated water, he managed to remember the basic spells. Spinning currents of his own in the opposite direction of the mermaid's, he merged them together and freed Jasmine from the dizzying prison.

"Interesting. A land wizard with the power to control water," the elemental remarked. "Well, how about this?"

Obviously still disoriented, the princess edged closer to him as the mermaid retreated and the water began to swirl around them again. As they watched, the currents took form and solidified into sleek gray shapes. Sharks. Mozenrath had never seen a live specimen before, and he tracked their circling movements in fascination for a brief moment. They were clearly dangerous with all those rows of teeth, not particularly fast swimmers, but easily capable of overtaking a human.

He counted half a dozen of them and drew up an invisible barrier of jagged edges just wide enough that the princess wouldn't accidentally cut herself on it if she reached out. A second later one of the creatures turned with remarkable speed and dove straight for her. He winced as she screamed in fright, and found he'd taken a step toward her in case the defensive net failed for some absurd reason. Of course it didn't fail. The shark impacted the spikes just as he intended and reeled back, bleeding copiously. Too dumb to learn from its mistake, its fellows followed suit and soon the water was billowing with red clouds. It reminded him of the idiocy of Mamluks when left to their own devices.

Drawn by the scent of blood, the sharks abandoned their human prey and began to tear each other apart. Beside him the princess covered her mouth and he almost laughed at the look of revulsion on her pretty face.

"Fascinating beasts. Dumber than Mamluks, though," he commented. Then he raised his hand and put an end to the spectacle with a blast of power. Fins and jaws and unidentifiable chunks of flesh were propelled in all directions with the spreading cloud of blood. He made sure it stopped at the edge of the net, though Jasmine still found it too close for comfort. He smiled at her unease. "Can't let blood get on the princess."

She opened her mouth to retort but the elemental chose at that moment to voice her displeasure. "You killed my beautiful creatures! You're going to pay for that!"

He raised an eyebrow, wondering why she hadn't stepped in to defend her precious pets if she cared for them so much. If this dimwitted mermaid was representative of the opponents that Jasmine and her street rat routinely faced, it was no wonder why they constantly underestimated him. He was the slightest bit offended that the heroes had it so easy, but perhaps it came as no surprise that he was the only one who gave them a challenge.

"Saleen, you can't win," Jasmine asserted. "Just let us go."

The princess' bold assumption kicked his annoyance up a notch; she spoke as if she were the one holding the power. And what was that about 'letting _us_ go,' as if he were as weak and stupid as she was, needing to be rescued from a second-rate water elemental?

"Intriguing that you trust me to win. What happened to believing that enemies would only bring you harm?" he said testily.

"If you know what's good for you, you'll get me out of here," was her haughty reply.

He was about to cut her down succinctly when the elemental suddenly appeared beside him, a maniacal grin on her face. The wild magic around her consolidated in the completion of a spell and Mozenrath realized she had encased them in a water prison. The bubble's surface distorted everything around them, and the mermaid's grin looked even more psychotic than before.

"Try to get out of this one, sorcerer. Before the water pressure crushes you," she tittered.

He ignored her and reached out to erase his own barrier spell, testing the bubble with his gloved hand. It held fast, bending but not breaking no matter how much he tried to stretch it.

"The bubble lets nothing escape. It only lets water enter, until it crushes the life out of whatever unfortunate souls may be trapped inside!" the elemental gloated. "Don't worry, Princess. I'll tell Aladdin that you died in peace…in the arms of another man!"

As he felt the weight of the water press in on his lungs, he decided the first thing he would do when he got out of this stupid prison would be to rip out the mermaid's vocal cords. Then he'd torture her at his leisure, not having to hear her infernal voice. If the princess weren't vital to his plans for survival, he'd consider silencing her as well. She was currently pounding on the walls in futile rage, being absolutely useless as usual.

"Don't waste your energy!" he snapped, keeping his temper contained until he could get them out of this trap. "We have to push the walls in opposite directions in order to get out. The elasticity of this bubble is limited. If we stretch it enough, it will break. Here." He took her arm and transferred a small measure of power through his gauntlet into her body.

She cried out in pain and flinched back instinctively, but he grabbed her by the shoulders with barely checked frustration. "No time to be delicate. Take that energy and shove it against your side of the bubble as hard as you can. On my count."

He turned to the opposite side of the bubble and raised his gauntlet to the barrier, counting them off. For once she listened to him properly and they struck the barrier at the same time. He shouted further instructions and she again obeyed, throwing her body weight against the prison as he sent even more power through the walls.

The barrier finally broke and they lurched forward into open water, able to breathe freely once more. As he straightened up, he had to bite back the urge to take out all his irritation on the princess, no matter how much she deserved it. To put him through this amount of trouble and tax his already depleted reserves of energy when his days were numbered…he gritted his teeth and swallowed several curses. Threatening her would only set her back from reaching his goals, and he couldn't have that.

He settled for the mildest reprimand he could deliver under the circumstances, catching her gaze with a cold stare. "Let those skin burns be a reminder never to ask me—"

He abruptly stopped at the feel of magic consolidating behind him, having forgotten about the elemental's presence in his annoyance toward the princess. Before she could spring another aggravating trap on them, he cut off her spell with a concentrated blast into the patch of darkness where she was hiding. His aim struck true and she shrieked in her grating voice, bound tightly by his magic. A simple pull and the mermaid tumbled forward into view, sprawled unceremoniously on the sand.

"I hate being interrupted, especially by weak elementals who think I can't see them weaving spells," he said curtly. His right arm had begun to burn with that familiar fire of emptiness and exhaustion. He ignored it.

She dared to defy him still, lashing out at his legs with her tail. He put an end to her struggles with a more potent blast, crippling her from the waist down. An answering pain flared in his own arm as he forced more power through the gauntlet, but again he bore it with gritted teeth. The satisfaction he'd get from killing her would more than make up for it.

Hissing in rage, she tried to sit upright and failed miserably, too weak without the use of her tail. "I hate strangers entering my water to meddle with my prisoners!" she spat at him, then directed her whining at the princess. "You never play fair, do you? Always have to have a loyal defender come to your rescue."

_Excuse me?_

"I believe I'm the only one with ranting privileges here," he said darkly, his tone absent of all humor. "Called out of my Citadel in the middle of the night only to be caught in a catfight between a spoiled, magicless princess and a tasteless, weak elemental."

Her defiant gaze told him she still hadn't gotten the point. He would have to correct that. Another blast from his gauntlet and she was screaming and thrashing on the floor, blue and black bolts of energy scorching her skin.

The princess shouted at him to stop just as he sensed the mermaid's cephalopod pet racing toward them from above. With a sneer he directed an arc of energy upwards and sliced off two of its tentacles. He ignored the princess' gasp of pity and turned back to the half-conscious mermaid, ready to silence her for good.

"Stop!"

He held back his power just in time to avoid killing the princess as she recklessly threw herself on his arm. How pathetically predictable. He met her pleading eyes with a warning glare, about to shove her off and finish the job when he saw the expression of pure fear on her face. She had made a full retreat into the disgust and horror she had always felt toward him, and the sight stopped him cold.

He pushed her away as nausea curled his stomach at having to bow to her will, to curb the acidic hate itching to unleash itself in a death spell. But necessity dictated it. He had to adhere to priorities, even it meant taking the sickeningly noble route and sparing the bitch who'd tried to drown him.

"As I said, I'm out of your league," he said to the incapacitated mermaid, fury simmering just beneath the cool tone of his words. She stared dazedly up at him in exhaustion and pain. "In a second I'll be out of your water, and you better thank the gods that I have no wish to return."

He didn't wait for a response or any more simpering pleas from the princess, quickly transporting them both onto dry land. He stood in silence as his temper cooled and the phantom pain in his arm subsided, watching the princess struggle to warm herself while her clothes were still drenched.

"I won't ask what business you had with that elemental. Or why you're even out here in the middle of nowhere by yourself. It seems you're better than I am at making enemies in random places," he said flatly.

She seemed unable to meet his eyes, actually looking chastised and repentant as she shivered before him. Her reply was almost a whisper, and he wondered if he'd misheard. "Thank you. I'm sorry for the trouble."

"The princess, thanking me? And apologizing? Now this is rich," he scoffed.

"You just saved my life. Of course I have to thank you," she snapped.

"And now she's back to normal," he said dryly. Her rare show of humility had actually managed to take the edge off his anger, and the insecure jump back into hostile mode was merely amusing, Especially her indignant glare at the fact he wasn't going to dry her clothes as he had his own.

"It has not yet been thirty days," he continued. "Take care not to die before then. I hate to see my opponents bow out of the ring without my consent."

"I'll try not to die before you tell me to, Master," she sneered.

Now in the clear desert air he was reminded of the question he'd tucked away earlier. The scent of Sejhai was still strong. She'd taken a large dose of it, and he was truly curious as to what had prefaced such a predicament. He could partially guess; she had just traveled to Desrial, which was known for popularizing the herb. But she certainly wouldn't have indulged in an aphrodisiac willingly.

The most likely scenario gave him pause. Another form of nausea coiled inside him, something he hadn't felt in a very long time. His hand was steady as he drew an item out of an invisible store he hadn't opened in years.

She tensed as he held the bottle out to her.

"Take this. It'll get rid of the lingering effects of the potion you drank," he said.

"Potion?" The wariness in her eyes shifted to plain confusion.

"I smelled it on you the moment I arrived," he clarified. "It must have been a strong dosage for its scent to have remained on you in the water."

She stared at him for a moment, seeming to search his face for some hint of deception or malice. Her bewildered gaze left her even more exposed than usual as it inadvertently lingered on his lips. It was strange to see her this way, for once completely unguarded and not putting up a fight, unaware of the real enemy in her bloodstream.

"Drink this," he repeated. "It'll clear your head."

"What potion are you talking about?" she asked hesitantly.

"There is an aphrodisiac in your system. One of the stronger brews, I believe, native to Desrial."

The statement of fact, absent of spite or self-satisfaction, undid her. As she reached for the potion she was already shaking, no longer from the cold alone. Her face was once more full of fear, but not fear of him. He let go of the bottle and floated it over to her, giving her space to sort through the range of emotions flitting through her eyes.

With trembling hands she managed to remove the cork and drank the potion quickly. He took the empty bottle back with a vanishing spell and stored it back in its old place.

Her knees seemed to give out and she sank down bonelessly, covering her face with her hands. There were no tears yet; it seemed she still had enough pride to hold them back as long as he was there.

"Another firsthand lesson, Princess," he said without emotion. "Never allow another to have power over you."


	28. Kidnapped

**A/N:** A long overdue story for **darkelf19**, artist and M/J fan extraordinaire. Check out her amazing fanart of the same title on her deviantart. This one-shot is kind of in the Antiphony Outtakes universe, abundantly meta.

* * *

**Kidnapped**

"CUT!"

"Ow!" A hiss of air passed between his teeth as her heel dug into his foot. She was already fuming mid-whirl and paid him no mind. He didn't try to get in her way.

"What is it this time?" Jasmine demanded as the smoke machine sputtered to a halt in the background. The gray fog smelled oddly of clown makeup, no doubt aggravating her pissy mood past the Scourge threshold. Mozenrath was usually a patient man, but even he was starting to gravitate toward his TV persona.

"Don't get smart with me," the new director snapped. "We've been over this a dozen times! You have to look _terrified. _You're getting kidnapped by your worst nightmare and you're totally defenseless!"

Jasmine made a derisive noise, stepping toward the edge of the set. "Okay, look Mary, I know you have your newly minted Masters in Directing and all, but have you read a single page of the base material? Or watched even fifteen minutes of the show? I am _not_ terrified of this guy. I'm more likely to kick his ass than run away screaming!"

The director stood her ground, almost leaning forward in anticipation for a fight with the female lead. Mozenrath glanced back at Aladdin who was just climbing down from the flying carpet platform and moving toward them. Hopefully they wouldn't have to step in to break up anything. He kind of wanted to see Jasmine shove a megaphone over the woman's head. Ever since Cantare had taken a vacation, they'd been suffering through retakes with a rookie stand-in director who redefined the meaning of anal-retentive.

"I guess you might still be suffering from memory loss, _Princess,_" Mary sneered, "because you seem to have forgotten that he threatened to rape you in one of the episodes!"

Mozenrath winced as the argument abruptly careened off a cliff. It was less than pleasant to remember that particular scene; his character had almost been canned after a concerned parents' coalition had protested against "the overt sexuality" in his choice line. Apparently eight year-olds these days were worldly enough to know that "everything" meant something other than a palace.

"Here we go," Aladdin muttered beside him. They traded a rare sympathetic glance before Aladdin stepped forward to try to restrain his girlfriend.

Jasmine clenched her fists and brushed him off when he touched her shoulder.

"Apprehensive is different from terrified," she gritted out. "Didn't they teach you anything about emotional expression or maybe basic vocabulary in whatever starving community theater took you in? The script said _apprehensive_ and that's what I did."

"By running to Aladdin for protection? You were terrified!"

"I was _not_ terrified!"

"Jasmine?" Aladdin tried again.

"Someone bring me the reel of that episode. We'll watch it right now!"

"Fine!" Jasmine shouted.

"I wouldn't sound so eager if I were you!"

"Let it go," Mozenrath said nonchalantly as Aladdin backed off, dismayed. "This is kind of a fun break."

"I'm the last person who would ever say this," Aladdin said reluctantly, "but I miss Cantare."

Mozenrath laughed, trailing off in a villainous sigh. "For once we agree on something, street rat."

The director's assistant, a tall pasty man with amber eyes and serious social issues, came back empty-handed. "Sorry Mary, the reel's on loan. A slew of fanfic writers have got it reserved til next January."

She narrowed her eyes, not breaking her death stare against Jasmine. "Well then. We have other ways to settle this."

"Nothing that won't leave us needing a new temp director."

"Whoa," Mozenrath said under his breath. That was the closest cue he'd get to stage an intervention before blood was spilled. He stepped into the narrow strip of no-man's land between the two women, almost expecting to feel static crackle across his skin. "How about we all take a break? Calm down a little and go over the script on our own—"

He froze at the two venomous glares pinpointed on him, fighting the urge to tiptoe backward into obscurity.

"I can do this scene in my sleep," Jasmine said adamantly. "I'm doing it exactly the way Cantare wrote it and we'd be moving on to an entire new series by now if _she_ didn't insist on making it a teenage vampire movie."

"How dare you—"

Aladdin went a step further than Mozenrath and put a hand on both their shoulders before they could jump at each other. "Break. We need a break. No rehearsing, no reading, just an hour to breathe. Jas, we'll go out for coffee down the block."

Though there was little goodwill between them, Mozenrath had to admire the man for his forceful diplomacy. Something about his stance, maybe, or the no-bullshit stare. The women slowly backed off, resentment simmering in their gazes.

"Okay," Aladdin said, a hint of relief in his voice, and turned to his girlfriend. "So how about—"

"You're not leaving the set," Mary said succinctly. "If she goes, then we work on your scenes. We're way behind schedule and—"

"And whose fault is that?" Jasmine sniped.

"Don't start," Aladdin warned. "Fine, I'll stay. Just get out of the building and get some fresh air. We'll talk later."

The selfless gesture seemed to placate the antagonists somewhat. In a strangely synchronized moment, both women pivoted on their heels and marched away from each other.

"Get back to the platform," Mary ordered as she picked up her megaphone from beside the director's chair. She looked around at the various members of the crew as if remembering their puny existences were still necessary for her work. "What are you all looking at? Stations!"

The only sign of frustration on Aladdin's face was a slight twitch of the eyebrow as he nodded in Mozenrath's direction. "Enjoy your break," he said flatly.

Mozenrath couldn't help but grin. "Jumping off the balcony looks like a good option now, doesn't it?"

x.x.x

He found her tearing the petals off a bouquet of flowers in her room. She'd opened the door and let him in without even looking at him, intent on ripping each chrysanthemum petal five ways before scattering the bits to the floor.

"So, uh…" He would have stuffed his hands in his pockets if they weren't already there. He played with the lint in the lining instead. "Care for some coffee?"

"No." She collapsed gracelessly on her divan, one foot up on the cushion.

"How about Wii boxing?"

She was silent for a while, ripping three more petals before tossing the flower in the garbage. Grabbing a tissue off the cluttered makeup counter, she rubbed the stains off her hands and stood up.

"Where?"

"I have my Wii here. I thought you knew."

"Let's go."

She continued to give little more than monosyllabic answers as they reached his room and he set up the system. She took a controller from him and tightened the strap around her wrist with more force than necessary. The opening screen chimed with exaggerated cheeriness that neither of them felt. She leaned forward in a real boxing stance at the sound of the starting bell, and he felt an odd stroke of pity for his Mii.

"I don't think I've ever died that fast," he commented as his character went down for the third time a minute later. "Good job."

"Don't patronize me," was the terse response. Three words, at least.

He'd come in thinking he'd go easy on her and play the role of a weakly defended potato sack to alleviate some of her rage. But as always, he didn't like losing. His half-hearted attempts to block and counter felt unnatural and cowardly instead of chivalrous.

"You suck at this," she said after a while. Four words this time. It should have been encouraging, but he felt annoyed instead.

"I'm letting you win."

"Yeah, okay."

"Because you're angry and need to let off some steam," he insisted.

"Uh-huh," she said airily.

"You want me to play for real?"

"When does Lord Mozenrath ever not play for real?" she countered.

He felt a tug at the corner of his mouth. "So we're in-character for the next round."

"Canon characters. Not this rose-colored Mary Sue garbage."

"You're on."

He found they had to put more physical distance between them after she elbowed him several times with her right hooks. The first "real" match was a close one, both of them falling twice and recovering strong before pummeling the crap out of each other. He was already sweating by the second round and rolled his shoulders a few times to lessen the tension in his muscles. Not that he was afraid of losing – he'd had plenty of practice since he'd bought this game partly to get into shape, though he would die rather than admit that to anyone.

"That's right, shit just got real," he said smugly as her avatar sprawled unconscious in the ring. "Wanna go back to ripping up flowers?"

She caught him off guard as she shoved him with more strength than he thought she had. Stumbling sideways, he knocked into the floor lamp and made a futile grab at thin air before tripping over the arm of his couch.

"Sorry," she said, actually sounding concerned. She righted the lamp before it tilted too far and sat down beside him, controller dangling forgotten from her wrist. "Didn't bruise anything, did you?"

"I'm fine," he brushed it off, again damned to admit the truth. But the twitching of her lips already told of her amusement. Pushed over by a girl. Sometimes he wondered if he'd ever shed his high school reputation as the class punching bag.

"You said we should be in-character. Just acting my part."

"Now was that Dagger Rock or Amnesiac Princess?" he returned, disappointment fading at the sight of her smile.

She laughed at his favored nickname for her favorite episode. "Dagger Rock, duh. You weren't in the other one."

Strands of hair were matted to her forehead, her cheeks flushed a healthy red from the exercise. Now she looked like she'd just come back energized from a pilates class instead of seething from a near-catfight with a director. She was beautiful regardless of her mood, but somehow knowing he'd been the one to bring the radiance back to her face threw him into awkward mode.

"I wish I had been," he said. In a second of hindsight, it sounded strangely like a confession, harmless as it was.

She raised an eyebrow. "Really. I thought you liked seeing Aladdin humiliated in that episode."

"I was thinking more along the lines of 'Lord of the Black Sand teams up with Scourge of the Desert.'"

Her smile widened into a full-fledged grin. "The set wouldn't have been able to handle us. Hell, Cantare's mind would explode."

"So would the legions of fangirls."

She scoffed. "Legions, huh. Getting a bit cocky there."

He realized his slip and laughed at himself. "Oh no. You're the only reason I even have fangirls."

She shoved him again playfully. "Bullshit, I was just kidding. You need to hire a bodyguard with all the tweens following you around. And they'd all prefer it if I was out of the picture."

"Jasmine, please. You do realize that the letters M and J have taken on new significance because of us, right? They don't just mean the King of Pop anymore."

Her smile thinned, though there was no protest in her eyes. He cursed himself for injecting more awkwardness between them when things had been going so well.

"So, uh, we have about twenty minutes left," he said, steering them back to safe ground. "Wanna go over the scene again?"

He waited for the storm clouds to return, but she merely looked thoughtful. "Yeah, let's do it." She disentangled the controller from her wrist and jumped up lightly from the couch. "And we're going to do it right. I don't care what that crazyass director says."

"Well…" he said, trailing off pensively. She paused on her way to his desk and looked back in question. "Maybe we can mix things up a little."

"Is that the in-character voice I hear?"

He grinned slowly, adjusting for the dark tone of the Lord of the Black Sand. "I have an idea."

x.x.x

Arriving ten minutes late to the set didn't put them in the director's good graces. But time had been tight enough as it was, refining his plan and rushing to find what they needed. They hadn't had time to rehearse, but improv came naturally enough to both of them that it wouldn't matter that much. He wasn't nervous. Not at all.

"Feeling better?" Aladdin said with more than a hint of exhaustion as he drew his girlfriend in for a kiss.

"Better enough," she said vaguely, glancing at Mozenrath with a half-smile. "Nothing blows off steam like a good workout."

Aladdin raised an eyebrow at the poor wording, but before Mozenrath could deflect any ill-earned suspicion, the director's shrill voice snapped them back to the task at hand.

"Alright, enough dawdling! Get in your places people! Aladdin, back on the platform! And _Princess_, that extra time you spent off in lala-land had better translate into proper acting this time!"

The venomous tint to Jasmine's gaze disappeared as quickly as it had come when Mozenrath drew the small plastic jar out of his pocket and discreetly twisted it open, backing off with a conspiring nod.

The set turned dark and Jasmine stood still with her eyes closed, arms loose at her sides as if sleepwalking. Mist billowed from the floor on both sides of the set to curl around her feet, slowly wafting upward to surround her slight frame.

That was his cue.

"Good evening, Princess."

She opened her eyes, blinking in surprise as she cast around blindly.

"Who's there?" she said timorously, hands trembling.

The director blinked in real surprise at Jasmine's sudden and complete cooperation. Mozenrath fought a smile. Perfect start.

"I'm a little hurt that you don't recognize my voice. Don't they say the third date's the charm?"

Jasmine's eyes widened as she took a step back and swallowed nervously. The camera on the left zoomed in on her throat at that exact moment. Mary looked on in enraptured silence, already sold.

"M…Mozenrath?" His name came out a whisper, an elusive, flawless mix of fear and several symptoms of fangirl rabies. He was seriously impressed and vicariously flattered.

"Ah, your memory hasn't failed you after all," he said smugly, squashing the momentary distraction.

A dim light turned on overhead and the smoke machine went into overdrive. Stepping in front of it for his grand entrance, he surreptitiously turned over the jar in his hand and dumped its contents directly into the path of the air currents from the machine.

He could hear the director suppress a squeal as the air around him became a concentrated maelstrom of silver glitter, and a poor unsuspecting assistant sneezed somewhere nearby. The main cameraman looked at the director questioningly, expecting a bitchy reprimand and a salvo of orders for a retake. But Mary was too far gone for that, hands clasped religiously in front of her mouth as Mozenrath executed the scripted cape swirl twice as slow and wide as necessary, sparkles fanning out in all directions.

He almost cracked when he saw Jasmine's lip quiver the slightest bit in furiously suppressed laughter. But the show had to go on; the ruthless perfectionist in them both would see this through to the end, as ridiculous and potentially ruinous to their reputations as it might be.

"What do you want with me?" Jasmine's voice slipped seamlessly into a lower octave, ending in a soft breathless gasp as he stepped right in front of her.

Something prickled at his skin and he knew without looking that it was the intensity of Aladdin's death glare. The man was still a fair distance away on the flying carpet platform, but that would certainly change if Mozenrath didn't finish the scene soon.

"More than you could dream of," he said with all the darkness and sensuality of a romanticized serial killer. Under normal circumstances he would have been freaked out by the caliber of his Ted Bundy impersonation. Under normal circumstances any woman, let alone Jasmine, would have kicked him in the balls and run away.

"You won't get away with this…" she breathed as he encircled her waist dramatically with one arm. "Aladdin will save me…"

He shoved down the growing knot of laughter lodged in his throat. At this point her lines had lost all connection with the tone of her voice. She was all but pleading for him to whisk her away to the Citadel and turn this kid's show into something that barely made an R rating.

He'd do that in the next scene. For now all he had to do was sweep his cape around them both and end it with a mock teleportation—

She leaned up and kissed him.

The jolt to his system was like a final knockout punch in Wii boxing, but he thanked whatever comedic muses were watching over him right then that he managed to keep his focus and not fall off the set like the comic relief in a high school bishounen anime.

He could feel the smile around the edge of her lips as she opened his mouth with her tongue and took the kiss into PG-13 territory. In a far-off corner of his mind he wondered if Mary's utter silence meant they had inadvertently killed her with a brain aneurysm. In the immediate forefront of his mind he wondered if he'd suffer the same fate in the next few seconds if Jasmine didn't pull away soon.

It was the sparkles that saved him.

Jasmine abruptly sneezed in his face, considerably reducing the romantic sentiment in the scene, both manufactured and real.

He fastidiously wiped her spit from his face, they both stepped back from each other, and his spider senses gave him a split-second of warning before his left cheek took the full brunt of a hammer blow and he fell to the floor, losing all remaining dignity on the way.

"HEY!" The director and Jasmine shouted at the same time.

Mozenrath sat back with strange detached serenity despite the throbbing in his face and leg where he'd fallen wrong. Jasmine was restraining Aladdin as Mary blocked his path directly, shouting that this scene was absotively posilutely perfect and ten times better than what Cantare had originally written, and no street rat's vendetta was going to change a thing about it. It was going into the episode if she had to sacrifice her firstborn child for it, because this scene like no other had the power to change the fates of millions of teenage girls across the world.

Stunned, Mozenrath stood up and brushed himself off, staring over Mary's shoulder at Jasmine's equally astonished expression.

_What have we done _was written in half-horror, half-disbelieving hilarity in her wide eyes.

He was grinning like an idiot now and for all his acting prowess, he could do nothing to wipe the incriminating sign of a full-blown crush off his face. Even the glare of murder and torture in seven hells from her well-muscled boyfriend couldn't quell the teenage euphoria in his veins.

On second thought, as Jasmine lost her grip on Aladdin's arm and he charged straight past Mary with a fist aimed at his face…he probably should have practiced a bit more self-defense during that Wii break.


End file.
